


Mistaken Identity

by fringe_element



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape Recovery, Unfaithful!Saul, Vengeful!Nacho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4442147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fringe_element/pseuds/fringe_element
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy McGill has been known to assume other identities when it suits him. But what happens when he is mistaken for someone he definitely does not want to be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. LWYRUP

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post. I hope you enjoy!

Saul didn’t want to be in this part of town, especially at night. Hell, this is where a lot of his clients lived. By the time he arrived at the pharmacy he was still pissed that his prescription had been filled at the wrong location. But after a two hour meeting with Walter White, Saul was jonesin’ for his drug of choice: Xanax, and he wasn’t going to let a little pharmaceutical mishap stop him from getting his fix.

People loitered around the pharmacy parking lot like it was some kind of soup kitchen. Saul chose to park on the street--an easier get-away should the need arise. As he walked toward the pharmacy, shapes appeared from the shadows and asked for money, the stink of their needs like an invisible aura around them. Saul shuddered; he’d need to get his suit dry cleaned.

Once in the store, Saul mustered a cheery “Hello!” at the pharmacy window in the back of the store. His voice betrayed none of the anger that he felt about the inconvenience of having to come to this part of town. While his voice was even, he was uncommonly taciturn with the pharmacy technician who filled his order. ‘No charismatic humor for you, you who works at a company with ass-backward customer service,’ he thought bitterly. He almost snatched the prescription bag from the tech and only then began to calm down, safe in the knowledge that he’d be in the shelter of his lawyer’s little helper momentarily.

As he walked through the store, Saul ripped open the wax paper prescription bag, grabbed the pills and tossed the bag, but saved the info sheet that had his name on it. He took the pill bottle and carefully peeled off the label that had his name and address on it, pocketing the label and the pills too. Swallowing a Xanax with some off-label water he had purchased (they didn’t have Evian), he imagined the pill to have an immediate effect on his jangled nerves. He was nervous before he came to the pharmacy, but the collection of characters out in the parking lot raised the situation to threat level orange. He needed that Xanax to kick in hard. He took a second pill.

Saul self-consciously fiddled with his car keys. He flinched when he heard a familiar voice call out his name, “Yo, Saul! What the hell, man?” asked Jesse Pinkman, smiling broadly, laughter in his voice.

“Jesse,” relieved, Saul held out his hand only to have it slapped not shaken.

“Whatcha doing here?” Jesse’s smile twisted into a frown of concern.

“Well most of my clientele don’t live in the 90210 zip code...” Saul replied, masking the real reason for his presence. He suddenly became aware of how much his pearlescent white Coupe de Ville stood out in the desperate neighborhood. Threat level red. He wondered if the kid was high or dealing. Probably both.

“Yeah, well, you should get the fuck out, yo!” Jesse warned, his eyes glued on Saul’s. Jesse seemed more confident out here on the street than he ever had in Saul’s office, in Walt’s presence. The kid gave Saul the once over. And who is Jesse Pinkman to judge? Saul thought. Still, he became self-conscious of his attire. Yeah, he was going to draw the wrong kind of attention. At least he wasn’t wearing his suit coat or his tie, but he did have a loud sort of teal shirt going on. 

“I gotta go. And so do you.” Jesse declared, looking both bemused and a little worried.

“Where’s your car?” Saul asked, looking around the lot and not seeing Jesse’s little soccer mom express. 

“It’s across the street,” Jesse pointed over his shoulder.

“The one with the people hanging all over it? What’s the attraction? You got Bo Derek in there?” 

Jesse spun around and saw that indeed a few people had congregated around his car, like they were waiting for him to return. Jesse dropped his head forward and rubbed his forehead. He didn’t recognize them all, but one for sure he knew - a drug dealer, a rival drug dealer. “Oh, that’s not good, yo. Do you think you could, like, give me a ride home or something?” Jesse asked his attorney.

Saul was annoyed for a nanosecond but quickly dialed down his inconvenience meter. “Ask no further,” he said, using his TV commercial voice, “Saul’s Escort Service is at your disposal.” Saul laid on a cheesy smile and brandished his keys. He hit the button on the key fob and the woot-woot of the car alarm loudly announced the doors were unlocked. Jesse looked up to the sky briefly and then across the street. His mouth dropped open: the guy he’d recognized now saw him and he was on his way across the street with two others. Saul was coming around to the passenger side. “What’s the matter, kid? Sometimes that lock sticks.”

Saul saw the three men just as Jesse whispered insistently, “Get in the car.”

It was too late. The three men were upon them now. One drew a gun. Jesse stepped in front of Saul and the lawyer threw his hands up in the air. Saul loved his work, until it got too real. His paranoid fantasies of bruises and broken bones, even risk of death, fueled a constant thrum of anxiety which he tried to batten down with Xanax prescriptions from three different doctors--and the occasional (ok, maybe frequent) whiskey. But now the world had imploded. He damned the pharmacy for bringing him down here.

Despite feeling paralyzed physically, Saul had a few snappy comments racing through his mind, but the gun was having a chilling effect on his normally quick-witted repartee.

“Why you protecting him?” the gunman asked Jesse. It was a good question. Jesse supposed he was being protective because Saul was so desperately out of his element. Hell, it was unusual to even see Saul outside. 

“Is he your boyfriend?” another asked in a mocking tone. Jesse recognized him as a guy called Cobra. His question brought sniggers. Jesse stole a glance back at Saul to see how he was doing: his face was white as cocaine and he appeared to be trembling.

“Your boss? Your pops?” The last comment evoked more laughter. Saul didn’t mind the comments; since the playground he had taken shit from tougher kids. But the word ‘boss’ caused a stab at the pit of his stomach. He imagined Walt witnessing the scene and he broke out in a cold sweat.

“He’s my lawyer, bitch. And doesn’t have anything to do with any of this!”

“Then why you bring him here?” one of them asked.

“This is our territory,” another added.

Saul tried to explain, “Hand to God, it’s just a coincidence we’re both here. I had to pick up some zannies and...” 

No one was listening, except Jesse who gave him a look that insisted, let me do the talking. Jesse interjected, “it ain’t no thing. He had to go to the drug store and I happened to be here.”

“Oh, the ‘druuug store’” one of the thugs said using air quotes. The air quotes were so out of context, Saul could not help find them funny and he almost smiled.

“No, the actual drug store... the pharm...” Saul thumbed at the building over his shoulder.

“Shut up!” One of them broke in.

“Whatcha looking to do down here, counselor? You buying or selling?”

“OK, look. Yes, my clients’ have product. Finest on the market. It’s just... please... I’m just the proverbial neutral third party.” Saul still had his hands up and he spoke with them as he talked.

“This guy talks a lot,” said one of them.

“You know what I think, I think he’s Heisenberg,” said another. Saul flinched at the words. A flood of adrenalin washed over his entire body; he felt like the physical world had fallen away and all he had left were paranoid fantasies coming to reality, racing toward him in an unrelenting barrage.


	2. Out of the Frying Pan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very violent. TW: rape.

Jesse laughed and then sneered. “Seriously, yo, he’s so not Heisenberg! He doesn’t know the first thing about the cook.” Jesse was almost indignant. “It’s Saul Goodman for Christ’s sake. Don’t you watch TV?”

“Better call Saul!” Saul intoned.

The thugs ignored him, arguing about Saul’s true identity amongst themselves.

“It’s Heisenberg... he’s supposed to be an older guy...” the one called Cobra asserted, “...a guy that hangs with Pinkman.”

“He’s a lawyer. License plate says so.”

“And he don’t look like no Heisenberg. He looks like that lawyer on TV!”

“Think about it, man,” Cobra insisted. “You only know Heisenberg from that sketch. It’s all a cover. A fake sketch, a pretend lawyer...”

“Hey, I’m a great lawyer!” Saul protested which was met by a chorus of “Shut the fuck up!” Jesse gave him an imploring look.

“I’m just saying,” Saul mumbled to himself.

“Heisenberg is supposed an ass kicker. This guy looks... soft.”

The one with the gun asked, “Are you an ass kicker, Heisenberg?” as he pushed past Jesse and stood face to face with Saul. 

“No,” Saul replied, averting his eyes, “I mean, yes,” confidence surged in his voice. He looked back up, “I can kick ass with legal rhetoric, but that’s it. I’m not Heisenberg.” Saul tried to see Jesse’s reaction, but Jesse was being pushed out of the way. The gunman grabbed Saul’s arm and led him around to the sidewalk where it was darker. 

Saul was surrounded by four barriers now. His car to the right, the assailants behind, a chain link fence to the left and in front of him a few haggard homeless people with overflowing shopping carts trying to see what was happening. The strong smell of urine emanated from the weeds around the fence.

Someone shoved Saul toward the car. Seeing his predicament, a panicky desperation overcame him. He looked at the onlookers with a simmering anger and fear; he could smell his own sweat. “Call the cops!” he yelled at them, the pitch in his voice breaking. 

He was grabbed from behind by the gunman. “That was stupid,” the gunman said flatly. With one hand, the gunman twisted Saul’s arm up behind his back. The gunman’s other arm was across Saul’s chest. Saul wondered where the gun was. He was pushed into the side of the car and the gunman pressed himself up against Saul. The lawyer could feel the gun now, in the small of his back; the gunman must have placed the revolver in his waistband.

“OK, let’s see some of that legal Tae Kwan Do,” The gunman laughed.

“Please. Don’t do this...” Saul begged, his voice shaky; he was searching for an angle, still believing in his verbal skills, but fear paralyzed his ability to speak. Cobra grabbed Jesse’s arms and followed Saul and the gunman.

“He’s just a lawyer!” Jesse protested, which earned a hard punch in the face from the third man.

“Heisenberg’s lawyer then?” the gunman asked. “Let’s hear you rat out your client.” Saul’s stomach twisted at the thought.

Saul looked down at the ground, his vision fixated on a crack in the sidewalk. He shook his head and quietly said, “no, I can’t...” The gunman and the third man grabbed Saul and slammed him into the side of the Caddy, the mirror catching the lawyer in the midsection. He let out a cry followed by a gasping sound as he felt the air push out of his chest. 

Cobra pushed Saul up against the car and held him there. The gunman began hitting Saul in the ribs where he’d collided with the mirror. Saul felt a cracking sensation inside and it grew like spidering broken glass as the gunman repeatedly hit him in the same place. Soon Saul’s grunts were growing weaker and he began to cough. 

“I can’t breath,” Saul whispered between coughs. Blood was starting to come up with the coughs and Saul’s terror grew.

The gunman paused the assault briefly, “Who’s Heisenberg?” he said softly in Saul’s ear. Saul thought about it momentarily: facing Walt tomorrow versus this guy tonight. Walt was scarier. Assuming he made it through the night.

“I... don’t... please.... Aw shit,” Saul choked, a metallic taste growing in his mouth. The gunman pistol-whipped Saul across the face, catching him in the eye. Saul cried out at the contact and doubled over in pain, but his movements were restricted by the man restraining him.

Saul was struggling to breathe. His ribs had to have been broken, shattered it felt like -- every breath was accompanied by an agonizing pain shooting up through his chest. His breathing sounded crackly, like he was breathing through a paper bag. They had probably punctured a lung, and this thought made him panicky: his breath was becoming more shallow and quicker. He tried to slow down his breathing but he couldn’t control the coughing.

The gunman grabbed a handful of Saul’s sweat-dampened hair and took him to the hood of the car. Flooded by adrenalin, deprived of oxygen, Saul was completely disoriented now. The gunman pushed Saul up against the car so that the lawyer was facing him. The assailant touched Saul’s belt and Saul flinched as a fresh panic raced through him. The gunman smiled and grabbed the belt buckle more firmly and started to undo it. He worked with one hand, while the other was still tangled in Saul’s hair. There was no question what he was going to do, but Saul held out hope that the inevitable wasn’t coming. Maybe something extraordinary would happen. Maybe one of these fucking bystanders called the cops, maybe Jesse would get a surge of superhuman strength. Hell, maybe Heisenberg himself would materialize.

“Please not that...” Saul managed to plea breathlessly. Blood was dripping down from his mouth now, wetting his Wayfarer blue shirt. Saul squirmed, trying to protest physically, but he had no strength left. His movements only caused the gunman to grip his hair more tightly.   
The belt buckle made a soft metallic sound as Saul’s pants fell to the ground. The gunman swung the lawyer around and pushed him down face first onto the hood of the Cadillac face first.

“You know he’s just a lawyer, yo! He’s no threat to you!” Jesse screamed.

“Just shut up or you’re next. . .”

“Just leave him the fuck alone,” Jesse retorted in a hiss.

The gunman finished pulling down Saul’s boxers. “Last chance. Who’s Heisenberg?”

“God, no. I need...” Saul replied. The burning in his chest, the lightheadedness, the shooting pains that racked his body, Saul could think of nothing more than consciousness and whether he wanted it or not.

“OK then. I hope he’s paying you good!” the gunman said, as he unzipped his own pants and positioned himself to enter Saul. As the gunman penetrated him, Saul let out a piercing yell. 

“He’s not Heisenberg, Bitch!” Jesse yelled, “leave him alone!” 

The man restraining Jesse put his lips close to his ear. “Who’s Heisenberg then? Tell us and we stop.”

Meanwhile, the gunman started pushing into Saul, building momentum and rhythm. Saul felt like he was being torn up inside, but he was determined not to make a further sound. His eyes felt a strong prickly sensation and tears began to form. The gunman was pushing Saul with every forward thrust into the car. Saul couldn’t match the strength of the push and was flattened into the car hood, his chest cruelly aggravated with each thrust. The coughing was coming more frequently now. Blood gurgling from Saul’s mouth was smearing the hood of the Cadillac in a grisly red on white contrast. 

Finally, the gunman was spent. He released fully and pulled out, leaving Saul splayed out on the hood car, a trickle of cum and blood running down his leg onto the car’s grille. In the distance a siren had begun to blare, and the assailants took this as their cue to leave. “This isn’t over,” the gunman said as he searched through Saul’s discarded pants. “We know where you live,” he said wielding Saul’s wallet.

Once they were gone, Saul reached out toward his clothes, his movements slow and his face contorted. It felt like a dozen knives stabbed at his lung; he couldn’t bend over. Saul was standing at the edge of the abyss of humiliation. He wanted to step off into the nothingness. Jesse raced over and touched his forearm,”Let me help.”

“Fuck off!” spat Saul, swatting at Jessie’s hand. The motion caused Saul to stumble. Jesse grabbed him and held him steady. Saul felt the reassurance but tried to push away before giving into the kindness--kindness he could barely process. Jesse tried to make eye contact with Saul, but the older man turned away his face. Jesse kneeled down and slowly reached for the clothes. He saw that Saul was nodding subtly. Jesse gathered up Saul’s boxers and pants and helped Saul to dress. Once clad, Saul slid down the front of the car, his back resting against the grille and he sobbed, hugging himself tightly with his left arm.

All was quiet now except Saul’s muffled sounds. Jesse was on the phone to 911. Then he sat down on the ground next to Saul; Jesse didn’t speak and he didn’t touch Saul.


	3. The Waiting Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love any comments. Thanks!

Jesse didn’t have a chance to get any contact names from Saul before he passed out. But Jesse had fished Saul’s cell phone out of his pocket and surfed the phone as they loaded Saul into the ambulance. It was like reading the guide for Turner Classic Movies. Pretty much every entry was a movie title and they were basically all obscure to Jesse. Doing a reverse search, Jesse found his own number: Rebel Without a Cause (never heard of it) and Mr. White (Dr. Strangelove... sounds appropriate). Then Jesse searched the numbers most called and most received. Two were prominent: Treasure of the Sierra Madre and Vertigo. He gave Treasure a call; he thought that sounded like a hooker. Instead a man with a Spanish accent answered. Jesse lost his nerve and hung up.

Of course, now the second call to Treasure was harder. 

“Jimmy, are you butt dialing me?” The man answered. Jesse’s eyes grew wide with confusion.

“‘m calling about Saul. I’m a friend... Jesse.” 

“Who the fuck is this?” The man seethed; Jesse thought he could hear spittle hitting the receiver. 

“Please. Listen. My name is Jesse Pinkman... ‘m calling about Saul.”

“Go on...” the voice on the line snapped.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry... there’s been... he’s been in an accident.”

“What?!” the voice came across surprisingly desperate. “Is he okay?”

“He’s just getting here now. To the hospital. Presbyterian... do you think you could come down. To the hospital?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course I’ll be there. Name’s Nacho. Hey, Jesse, thanks for calling.”

| | | | | 

After a few hours, Jesse’s phone calls had generated a waiting room full of people. Vertigo turned out to be a self-confident blonde lawyer named Kim, still crisply dressed in a suit. Kim had contacted a sun-tanned specimen of a lawyer named Howard who Jesse surmised was Spartacus. Kim and Howard were tending to the needs of a third person who seemed weirdly fragile. Kim told Jesse that it was Chuck McGill, Saul’s brother. Jesse guessed Rainman for Chuck McGill, but couldn’t find any likely entry in Saul’s phone. And oozing a silent confidence, Nacho (Treasure?!) was there, standing in the middle of everything.

“Has anyone spoken to a doctor?” Nacho asked. There was silence.

“I did. Well to the ambulance people,” Jesse replied.

“What’d they tell you?” Nacho asked.

“Is Jimmy going to be okay?” someone asked.

Jesse paused, confused. Nacho stepped in, “Jimmy--that’s Saul... another name”.

“Uh, like all his phones...” Jesse mumbled.

The visitors all turned their attention to Jesse. He wanted air. He wanted a cigarette. “They didn’t tell me anything. Okay? They asked questions,” Jesse told them.

“What did happen?” A quiet voice asked--Chuck McGill.

“There was a fight, ok? Me and Saul against three of them. And they had a gun.” This last statement elicited a gasp from Vertigo. The room was stunned; no one could imagine Saul Goodman (or Jimmy McGill) in a fight. Well, Nacho could imagine it, but it wasn’t good. Saul didn’t know how to defend himself, let alone put up any kind of offense. It had to have been more a slaughter than a fight.

“Who did this?!” Nacho insisted.

“I don’t know,” Jesse muttered. Nacho began to move toward Jesse, kicking a chair out of the way. “The competition,” Jesse clarified.

“The competition?” Howard asked mystified, leaning into Kim and whispering. “Lawyers did this?”

“Howard...” Kim replied exasperated, rolling her eyes and pulling away a little, but still keeping her voice conspiratorially low, “I think it’s Jesse’s competition. Drug dealers.”

Howard mouthed a silent, “oh,” and slouched back in his chair. After a long pause he added, “Jesus, what has Jimmy gotten himself into?”

“Bus bench criminal law. Did you think he’d been handling the same kinds of clients we get?” Kim ranted while Howard cast a sidelong glance at Chuck.

Chuck caught the look from Howard and noticed Kim too had a perturbed look on her face: her eyes were narrow and lips pursed.

“What!?” Chuck lashed out. “Don’t blame me. My brother made his own decisions. If his train wreck of a life landed him here, that’s Jimmy’s fault. It’s certainly not mine.” The outburst had captured everyone’s attention. Nacho headed over to where Chuck was huddled.

“Chuck is it? I’m Nacho--short for Ignacio.” Nacho stood over Chuck’s chair, his shoes almost touching Chuck’s, making unbroken, penetrating eye contact, “I’ve heard of you, but I bet you’ve never heard of me. Couple things: his name is Saul now. Second thing, you have to ask yourself, would Saul want you here? I’m as close to him as anyone here. Closer. And I’m betting, no, he doesn’t want you here. So why don’t you just go?”

Chuck struggled to stand up while Nacho occupied his space. Finally Nacho backed up a little, and it was surprising to realize that Nacho was short, perhaps only 5’8”, because he had the presence of a man more like 6’4”. Chuck, in fact, was more than 6 feet tall and looked down at Nacho. Nacho’s brown eyes still held an intense stare.

“I applaud Jim-... Saul’s financial success even while being disappointed with his approach...” Chuck conceded.

Jesse got hooked in... it sounded like his own family, “what are you, his father, bitch!?” he snapped. Kim tapped Jesse on the shoulder in an effort to derail a further tirade.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction,” she whispered to Jesse.

Chuck cleared his throat, “But the most significant point is that I hold power of attorney for James. Er, Saul. Therefore, I’m pretty sure that Saul would want me present until we know more about his injuries and prognosis. Are there any dissenting opinions?” Chuck was imperious now, his head held back, his long nose held high. He was oblivious to the aluminum foil lining visible under his suit coat.

“So now we have to take directions from the tin man?” Jesse asked, now standing next to Nacho.

“And who are you?” Chuck asked, sizing up Jesse. Jesse wore sneakers, oversized jeans, and an oversized red hoodie that partially covered a black t-shirt of a scorpion. A black eye was developing where the thugs had hit him in the face. “Some junkie drug dealer. What did you get my brother mixed up in?”

“Come on guys,” Kim broke in, standing up. “Hopefully we won’t need power of attorney, but Chuck is right. He should stay here until we know.” Chuck had sat back down with a heavy sigh and Kim came and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Besides, Chuck is Saul’s only family here. And Jesse, thank you for getting Saul to the hospital.”  
The group simmered down. Howard and Kim checked on Chuck’s condition. Chuck was agitated, overcome by the electro-magnetic frequencies combined with his brother’s situation and the confrontation with Nacho. He was writhing a bit in the chair. Jesse watched mesmerized as the two doted on Chuck.   
Howard got up and started unplugging things: lamps and anything electrical he could get his hands on. He even unplugged the vending machine, much to the chagrin of others in the room. Then, Howard had the audacity to ask for a collection of cell phones. He then set them in a trash can on top of a table and hovered over the phones so that no one would miss a call.

Nacho refused to give up his phone. He paced the floor, fidgeting. He sent a few text messages, but Jesse didn’t see him receiving any reply.

Jesse needed to get outside to smoke a cigarette. Once outside he found that the night had turned brisk. The lights of the city sparkled. Jesse drew in a lungful of air before lighting his cigarette. He had Saul’s cell phone and tried to think whether anyone was missing from the odd assortment of characters in the waiting room. There was Francesca... but Jesse wasn’t sure how close they were. They always engaged each other in banter that might be playful but seemed a bit mean-spirited. Jesse scanned the phone trying to figure out which movie stood for Francesca. He thought he found it in “Real Women Have Curves,” so he gave it a try despite the lateness of the hour. Jesse got it right: Francesca answered on the fourth ring. Her voice was clipped and she sighed when she learned who was calling. When Jesse told her why he was calling, there was a long pause.

“Which hospital?” she asked, her voice sounding stern. Jesse told her and she replied, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

It had been a fucked up day for Jesse. First Mr. White was pressuring him about sales. Mr. White wanted to move into new territories and he wouldn’t listen to any of Jesse’s warnings about the risks of doing so. Then, maybe just to prove Mr. White wrong, Jesse made the ill-fated decision to go to “The War Zone” neighborhood. And then there was what had happened to Saul.

Jesse had to admit that he was glad it wasn’t him. Whenever Mr. White and Jesse found themselves up shit creek, it always seemed to be Jesse that took the brunt of it. And besides Jesse didn’t even really like Saul; the lawyer was arrogant toward everyone and where Jesse was concerned, Saul layered on condescension like Jesse was some kind of worthless high school piece of shit.

At the same time, Jesse felt some inexplicable loyalty toward Saul. The lawyer was relatively innocent; he didn’t deserve a beating, especially not one intended for Mr. White. And meeting Saul’s brother... it seemed like Saul’s family was at least as dysfunctional as his own.

Jesse felt a vibration in his pocket and realized Saul’s cell phone was ringing. It was Vertigo. One of the doctors had come out to talk to them... Jesse butted out his cigarette and hurried back to the waiting room.

“Oh, good,” the doctor said when Jesse entered the room. “You’re the young man that brought Mr. Goodman in? We normally have this discussion with the family.”

“So, yeah... that would be Mr. McGill,” Jesse replied, pointing out Chuck sitting in one of the chairs. Chuck was sort of hunched over in his chair like something was hurting him. Jesse couldn’t tell if that something was physical, emotional or both. Vertigo seemed to be trying to calm him, and Spartacus handed Chuck a bottle of water. Nacho joined the conversation with the doctor.

“I’m Saul’s domestic partner. I’m more next of kin than that freaky brother of his.”

“Well, according to hospital policy, we don’t recognize...”

Nacho cut him off, “Don’t you want people who give a shit about Saul? Chuck McGill hasn’t spoken to his brother in six months.”

In the end the doctor sat down privately with both Chuck and Nacho. They were off in a corner of the waiting room, and Jesse watched as the conversation went down. Jesse tried to imagine what they were saying. It was pretty obvious that Saul had broken ribs--Jesse had experienced that himself. Jesse also figured that the coughing and bleeding from the mouth came from some kind of lung problem -- a punctured lung maybe. He wondered if the doc was going to come straight with everything. Chuck’s back was to Jesse but he watched Nacho reacting to the news. Yep, the doc shared everything. He saw Chuck drop his head forward and place his head in his hands. Nacho’s brown skin turned an ashen white. Nacho pushed the chair back from the little table where they were seated. The chair made a loud scrapping sound. Nacho paced as the doctor wrapped up his news. Quickly the blood was returning to his face and Nacho went from looking devastated to a simmering anger.

Finally Nacho and Chuck approached the rest of the group. Chuck explained in excruciating detail about the lung injury and mentioned that Saul would have to be on a ventilator for a few days. Nacho locked eyes with Jesse. Next would come the part about the rape but Chuck left all those details out. Nacho was throwing daggers with those brown eyes and Jesse knew it meant that he shouldn’t breath a word about the parts they left out. Jesse was torn. This seemed to be a collection of the only people in the world that cared about Saul; they should know. On the other hand, if he were in Saul’s place he wouldn’t want a soul to know. 

Lost in his thoughts, Jesse almost didn’t hear Nacho say that Saul was allowed two visitors now and that he’d like to see Nacho and Jesse. Jesse was dumbstruck. Probably Saul wanted to make sure he didn’t blabber the details all over the place.

When they got to the door of Saul’s room, Nacho paused. “Wait out here a few minutes,” he instructed Jesse. Jesse was a little surprised there were no cops milling around Saul’s door. The man had been raped, and the perpetrators had warned that it wasn’t over. But just the same, Jesse was glad there were no cops--he would have had to leave. 

After about ten minutes, Nacho ushered Jesse into the room. “He’s heavily sedated,” Nacho told Jesse quietly. Jesse slinked into the room. Saul was tethered to a variety of machines, and they were all humming and beeping and carrying on. The scene reminded Jesse of all the times Aunt Ginny was in the hospital, and he felt a burning in his eyes. Saul’s eye was bandaged and he had tubes running into his nose and all along his arm. 

Nacho indicated that Jesse was there and Saul turned his head in Jesse’s direction. “Jesse, thanks for hanging in there with me and getting help,” Saul said weakly, his voice distorted by the oxygen. 

Jesse fumbled for words, “How are you doing?” he asked and then felt like that was the most moronic thing he could have said.

“Not bad, actually. They are giving me my evening cocktail,” Saul replied, indicating the IV drips. There was a long awkward pause. “Jesse, can you ask Walt to come down here?” Saul started coughing and it reminded Jesse of, well, Mr. White. “Tell him to be discrete.”

“Yeah,” Jesse replied, “get Mr. White down here. On the down low. I can do that. Anything else?”

“The details...” Saul said groggily, “don’t tell anyone what happened.”


	4. Visitations

Just as Jesse and Nacho left, the sedatives kicked in fully and knocked Saul back into a welcoming, almost paralytic sleep. Saul’s mind was a dark abyss, and none of the evening’s perpetrators could penetrate the depth of his somnolence. But Jesse was there. He appeared in deep saturated colors, his eyes a sparkling sapphire blue, his teeth pearly white. Jesse was wearing his impossibly broad smile and was dressed all in white. He had an old timey black medical bag with him and he opened it up to reveal a plethora of drugs. “What’ll be your pleasure? They all will bring you leisure,” Jesse quipped, the smile not waning for even a moment.

“What have you got in there?” Saul asked with great interest. He could smell the leather of the bag and the acrid smell of the chemicals.

“Uppers and downers—it just depends how fast you want to get there and how long you want to stay. I’ve got anywhere from mild stuff to hardcore. How about something for pain?” Jesse asked, his hand poised above the vials of drugs.

Saul nodded hungrily.

“OK, something for pain. What else?”

“I want to forget.” Saul whispered.

“Ah, the black hole, yo. We can arrange that. But there’s a cost. Can you pay?”

“How much is it? I don’t have my wallet.” A panic had crept into Saul’s voice.

“I‘m not looking for money, yo. You want to bury memories, then we have to bury a chunk of your self with it. Can’t separate them,” Jesse explained.

“A pound of flesh...” Saul gulped.

“No. It’s not that easy. A part of your self.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Trust me,” Jesse replied, “if you want to bury a memory badly enough, you don’t want that part of your self either.”

That sounded like a good trade-off to Saul.

“How about eliminating them?” Saul queried.

“Huh?”

“I mean just get rid of the memories? I don’t want to bury the fuckers. I want them turned to nuclear waste. Disintegrated.”

“No—we bury them. You can’t just get rid of them. They are a part of you now.”

Jesse dug through the black medical bag and removed two vials. One was labeled “Painkiller,” the other “Forgetting.” Jesse used a needle to drain the contents of the Painkiller vial and injected it into one of the lines going into Saul’s hand. He did the same with Forgetting. Saul could feel a sting and then a burning sensation in his arm. Within seconds, he could taste the drugs—they had a bitter, earthy flavor. The drugs coursed through his body making him feel light headed. His eyes rolled back and he slipped deeper into the abyss. Now he felt nothing—it was as if he could sleep for one hundred years. 

The angel Jesse had in fact delivered several hours of blissful sleep. Saul awoke to a nurse poking and prodding him. Disoriented, and in pain, he let out a soft moan in response to the incursion. “Jesse stop; it hurts,” Saul complained. Then he asked, “Can I have some more?” Saul didn’t know where he was and he didn’t know that next to him on a couch Nacho was spending the night. 

Nacho hadn’t slept at all.

“What do you need, sweetie?” the nurse asked, brushing Saul’s hair off of his forehead.

“Forgetting,” Saul mumbled and “and pain... Painkiller.”

“I can give you more morphine in about an hour,” she replied, busily clacking away on the keyboard of her computer. “OK?”

“One hour,” Nacho repeated. “I’ll be timing you.”

Nacho’s voice surprised Saul, and he turned to see him sitting on the visitor’s couch. 

“Ignacio, you’re still here... Thanks.” Saul’s voice was soft and raspy.

“Who is this Jesse?” Nacho asked, his voice steely.

“He’s a client,” responded absently, not noting Nacho’s tone or wondering about the relevance of the question.

“And a drug dealer?” Nacho probed.

“Yes, that’s... that’s why he’s a client,” Saul muttered before he fell back to sleep. Nacho stood up and looked at him. Saul’s face, despite the bandage, looked angelic and peaceful. Nacho wanted to rouse him out of that sleep to ask more questions, but another part of him let Saul be. There would be time enough for answering questions.

| | | | | 

Later that morning, Walter White walked into Saul’s room; he flicked on the overhead lights to better illuminate the darkened room. Walt stood at Saul’s bedside and stared at his attorney. The mere presence of Walt caused Saul to stir in his sleep and, disturbed by the sudden brightness, Saul awoke. Nacho, too, was awakened by the lights.

Saul squinted at the man by his bedside, and upon recognizing Walt, he flinched. The reaction was not lost on Nacho who jumped to his feet. Walt and Nacho locked eyes, though Walt’s were obscured by a pair of sunglasses. His bald head was topped with an Albuquerque Isotopes baseball cap. It was the same get-up he’d worn the day he met Saul—the day Walt had pretended to be Brandon Mayhew’s uncle. As Saul’s faculties were coming online, he caught the irony of Walt’s disguise, and he remembered with a chill that later that same day Walt and Jesse had kidnapped him and threatened him in the desert. Hell, Nacho had done the same thing: that nut Tuco almost cut his finger off. Why the hell did he hang out with these people?

“Give us a moment. Taco, is it?” Walt stated, not breaking his eye contact with Nacho.

Nacho took a step forward, holding the icy stare all the while. “It is Nacho,” he hissed. “Saul?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s ok. I asked Walt to come. Or should I say ‘D.B.’?” Saul smiled just a little and Nacho took solace in that.

“All right. I’ll be right outside.” Nacho replied, reluctantly vacating the room.

“Can you turn off the lights?” Saul asked Walt. “I have a headache.”

Walt did so and took off the sunglasses. He pulled up a chair. “Isn’t he from Tuco Salamanca’s gang?” Walt asked, gesturing towards the door with his thumb.

“Yeah, he was, before Tuco said his big adios.”

“Strange bedfellows, so to speak,” Walt concluded.

“So to speak...” Saul repeated. “Clients sometimes become friends.”

“And sometimes more?” Walt probed. “Well, that’s probably not what you wanted to talk about. Although I’m sure you can appreciate my interest in understanding the nature of your relationship with Nacho, a known drug dealer. But moving on to the subject at hand, Jesse told me what happened, Saul. I guess I should thank you for your loyalty and... well, fortitude.”

Saul noticed that it wasn’t much of a thank you but responded with “You’re welcome,” anyway. He writhed a little in the bed, partly because of discomfort and partly due to worry about the phrase ‘told me what happened.’

“Now forgive me for asking a multitude of questions... I’m sure you want to rest... but this is important. Who were those guys?” Walt asked.

“I don’t know. Jesse might know,” Saul’s voice was rough and strained.

“And why did they think you were Heisenberg?”

“That’s the $64,000 question.”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Walt said, shaking his head.

“I think they recognized Jesse and figured that I was you.” At this point, Saul was racked by a coughing fit; again he was reminded of the night in the desert with Walt and Jesse and how Walt’s coughing attack had given him away. When he caught his breath, Saul continued on: “Once they realized I wasn’t Heisenberg, they wanted me to rat you out.”

“And thank you, Saul, for keeping silent,” Walt inhaled deeply. “I know there’s no dollar figure that could thank you for what you did, but I’d like to give you a bonus: $25,000.”

“That might cover the hospital bill,” Saul quipped. 

Walt was taken aback by the lack of gratitude. “You don’t have insurance?” he asked.

Saul shook his head.

“OK then, hospital expenses plus $25,000.”

“Yeah, totally worth that to get my ass kicked.”

“Saul, it’s just a token of my appreciation.” An alarm on one of the machines went off.

“No, Walt, what it is is insurance money to help make sure nobody gives you up when they have a pistol jammed down their throat. I didn’t protect you for money. You’re my client. It’s my job.” Saul was surprised by his own outburst. He turned his head away and looked toward the window. Though the blinds were closed Saul could see the dazzling Albuquerque morning sun sneaking into his room. Walt meanwhile was stunned by his lawyer’s uncharacteristic rant.

At this point, the nurse entered the room. “Hi, honey, I need to take your vitals and give you your meds.” The nurse began fussing with the various machines, turning off the alarm, taking Saul’s blood pressure, and prepping the medication. The final injection was morphine which made Saul very relaxed and sleepy. “You only have a few more minutes to talk. He’s going to be out of it soon,” the nurse informed Walt.

“Saul, let’s back up a second. I want to sincerely thank you for protecting my interests last night. You may have saved my life. I owe you the highest gratitude. And as a token of that gratitude, I’d like to give you meaningful compensation, so I will pay your hospital bills and on top of that I’m giving you a $50,000 bonus. Saul?”

Saul had fallen asleep.

| | | | | 

Later that day, Chuck entered the Saul’s room tentatively, escorted by Kim. Chuck looked around at all the equipment—the IV pump, the ventilator, various monitors—and shuddered.

“Hey, Chuck,” Saul said warmly, only then realizing how much he missed his brother. “Are you gonna be okay in here? Because I don’t think we can turn anything off.”

“I’ll manage,” Chuck said rubbing his arms and pulling his suit coat tighter around him. “Jesus, Jimmy, what did they do to you?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Saul lied, his voice worn.

“I’ll let you two talk,” Kim chimed in. “Jimmy, I’ll come by later.”

“Kim, wait,” Saul called, desperate for her not to leave. “Thanks for telling Chuck... I’m guessing it was you. I’m glad you’re here. Both of you.”

“I called Howard to pick up Chuck. Jesse called me... he told me how he broke the code on your phone. Vertigo, Jimmy?” 

“As in, you give me...” Saul explained. “That and you have a Kim Novak thing going on.”

“OK, I’ll give you some privacy,” Kim replied, departing the room.

There was a long silence between the two brothers. Chuck stood there, clutching at a shoulder.

“You know what this reminds me of? When you were eight years old and you broke your arm,” Chuck reminisced. 

“Mom wasn’t home...” Saul remembered.

“She was at work.”

“And you drove me to the hospital even though you only had your learner’s permit. Even as a little kid, your driving terrified me,” Saul laughed.

“Oh, that was a harrowing ride!” Chuck agreed. “I don’t know which was worse for you: the pain from your arm or the scary ride.”

“Definitely the ride.”

Smiling from the memory, Chuck pulled up a chair. “So, I met this Nacho fellow. I didn’t know that you were, uh...”

“Gay? Yeah, me neither. I guess sometimes you just fall into things, you know? It wasn’t a conscious decision. It just happened,” Saul explained.

“He seems, uh, very protective of you.”

“That’s Ignacio. Do I need to apologize for him?”

“No. In retrospect I think it was sweet. A little mean maybe, but sweet,” Chuck laughed a little. “Jimmy... something’s been worrying me... What are you doing about your case load while you’re in here?”

Saul sighed and admitted, “I haven’t given it a lot of thought... I already had a court date I had to postpone... I guess I’ll ask Kim if she could help.”

“I don’t think she can... she’s leading a big case right now. This could help her make partner,” Chuck replied. There was a long pause. “You know, Jimmy, I could help you.”

Saul laughed heartily. “Sure, I can see that. Charles McGill representing whores and drunks.” 

“Seriously, Jimmy, I could give you a hand until you’re on your feet.”

“You want to help me. I thought you said I wasn’t good enough to be a lawyer.” Saul began to cough.

“You’re a good lawyer, Jimmy. You’re hard working and incisive. You’re great in the domain you carved out. The part I question is your moral bearings.”

Saul’s face was twisted up as if he wanted to say something but was holding back.

“I’ll help you get through this and then we will see if there might be a place for you at Hamlin Hamlin and McGill. And you can leave Saul Goodman and his whores and drunks behind,” Chuck continued.

“I don’t want to abandon Saul Goodman,” Saul protested.

“If you weren’t Saul Goodman, would you have been attacked?”

“No.”

“I rest my case,” Chuck declared.

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Oh?”

“Chuck, look, I’m too tired. Let’s just go with this: I would like your help with my case load. We can work out the details later.” As soon as he said he regretted it. Saul didn’t want Chuck sniffing around his law practice. And what was this mindfuck about Saul working for HHM? Chuck was probably just trying to make him feel better.


	5. Triggers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: sodomy

On the second day, the doctor visited Saul and discussed with him his prognosis. He would need to be on the ventilator three to five days and while he was on it he would be confined to bed. Saul was depressed by the news; he was desperate to get the ventilator hose out of his nose so that he could talk normally. He found the hose irritating, giving a perpetual feeling of having to blow his nose. Likewise, the urinary catheter gave the sensation that his bladder was always full.

Saul’s room was a high traffic zone. Not only did he have a lot of visitors, but various nurses and techs continually came into the room to take down numbers, measure things and make insertions into his IV line. They didn’t seem to be coordinated in their efforts, sometimes one tech would take blood pressure and then half an hour later someone else would do it again. The lawyer wondered idly how the billing system worked. Was he going to have to pay for all of these unwarranted activities?

Just after lunch two plainclothes police detectives arrived to take a statement from Saul. This was the moment that Saul had been worrying about. He knew he had to talk to the police, no way out of that. But he had to make sure that Heisenberg did not enter the discussion. Furthermore, he wondered if he’d have to discuss the rape. He assumed he would; surely the hospital personnel would have already reviewed his injuries with the cops. He wished he could simply say that he didn’t want to press charges, as happens on TV, but he knew that in real life the prosecutor makes that decision, not the victim.

Saul pretended to have a foggy memory of the events the night before. He was as vague as possible in describing the three assailants. One of the cops was a big guy with ginger hair and a big mustache. His name was O’ Leary. He was the one who did most of the talking. The other cop was shorter, overweight, and completely bald on top with some tufts of dark hair on the side. After Saul gave his account of what happened and his meaningless descriptions of his attackers, the ginger cop said, “And who was it that raped you?” Saul’s heart leapt into his throat. He tried to maintain eye contact with the cop because he knew that if he didn’t he would look guilty.  
“The guy with the gun,” Saul murmured, feeling both embarrassed and angry at the same time.

_Saul is driving his Cadillac in the desert. It is nearing dusk and the sky is a panorama of pastels. Saul loves this hour in the desert, but he is also filled with trepidation. For him, the desert has been the landscape of so many threats, so much violence._

_Chuck is sitting in the passenger seat. He’s wearing a suit with no aluminum foil._

_“Are we there yet?” Saul asks._

_“Almost. Just up ahead. Another two, three miles.”_

_They come to an arrangement of cars, an auto graveyard, in the middle of nowhere and Saul pulls in among the cars._

_“This is the place you wanted to show me?” Saul asks, not understanding. Then he sees them: the three attackers from the other night. “It’s not safe here,” he says, turning to Chuck._

_Chuck is holding a gun, pointing it at his brother. “Get out of the car, Jimmy.”_

_“Chuck, come on, that’s not funny. Those guys are seriously bad news.”_

_The attackers are walking toward the car._

_“Get out of the car, Jimmy. They are waiting for you.”_

_“Why are you doing this, Chuck?”_

_“You’ve been a bad boy, Jimmy. Time for your punishment.”_

_“Chuck, no, you can’t be doing this…”_

_“Out!”_

_Saul fights the disbelief that his brother could be so vicious. As reality takes hold, Saul thinks he can make a play for the gun. He lunges for it and at the same moment the car door is ripped open. Cobra grabs an arm. There is a muzzle flash and a deafening pop. The bullet shatters the windshield. The attackers drag Saul out of the car and throw him to the ground, landing a few kicks in the process._

_One of them straddles Saul. The lawyer writhes and squirms and tries to hit his attacker, but is subdued by a punch to the stomach. The attacker, the third man from the other night, orders Saul to undo his belt buckle. Saul protests and is hit in the face. Saul fumbles with the buckle, releasing the prong._

_“Jack off,” the third man orders Saul._

_“Fuck you!” Saul replies. Again he is hit in the face. Saul feels helpless as he realizes he is completely fucked. He reaches into his boxers and takes ahold of his cock. It is half-hard already. He begins rubbing it, pumping up and down. He doesn’t think it will get hard, but it does. Saul tries to suppress the sounds that rise up in him as the pre-cum starts. His attackers—and Chuck—goad him and laugh._

_Before Saul climaxes, the third man stands up, saying, “All right. That’s enough.” And he kicks Saul in his swollen member. Saul cries out and then curls in on himself. The other two grab Saul’s arms and drag him to his feet. They hurl him, face first, against the hood of the car._

_Saul sees Chuck coming over, still wielding the gun._

_“Chuck, what the hell! Help me!” Saul screams._

_Chuck grabs Saul by the hair, “I told you, Jimmy, this is your punishment.”_

_“For what? What did I do?”_

_“Not what you did. It’s who you are.”_

_Somebody pulls down Saul’s boxers. Next he feels something cold and smooth penetrating his anus. Good God is that the gun? Panic sets in and Saul struggles but they are holding him down. The object becomes wider as it is pushed further in. It is the gun! The girth of the gun is so wide that it starts ripping Saul as it is forced in. Saul cries out, then grits his teeth. “The safety is off and the trigger is cocked,” Chuck whispers in his ear. “I’ll push it in farther unless you repent.”_

_“God forgive me for my sins. I apologize for the things I’ve done. I apologize for protecting Walter White.”_

****

Nacho was gently shaking Saul’s shoulder: “Wake up, buddy.” Saul was mumbling in his sleep and awoke to find himself gasping for breath. 

“Saul?” Nacho said, his voice just above a whisper.

Saul caught his breath, and opened his eyes, squinting. He startled when he saw Nacho.

“Saul, you had a dream. Everything’s ok now,” Nacho implored him, massaging his shoulder.

Saul calmed down and became reoriented to his hospital room. He heard the familiar beeping of the monitors and felt the stinging pressure of the catheter in his hand. “Ignacio?”

“Yeah. You’re okay now, buddy. You’re in the hospital.” Nacho brushed Saul’s hair back off his forehead and noticed he was sweating. “Hold on, I’m going to get you a wet wash cloth,” Nacho told him as he headed for the attached bathroom.

Nacho returned with the wash cloth and placed it on Saul’s forehead. Nacho’s hand brushed against Saul’s cheek. Saul reached up and grasped Nacho’s hand, intertwining fingers. He pulled Nacho in for a kiss. It was soft and tentative, Nacho wondering how far to push his passion, Saul scared of what he wanted. Nacho pulled back, picking up the wash cloth and kissing Saul on the forehead.

“If that was supposed to cool me down, it didn’t work,” Saul quipped.

Nacho refreshed the cloth and handed it to Saul, then he slid the chair over to the bed and took a seat. 

“Saul, can we talk about what happened to you?” Nacho asked, his voice soft and respectful.

“Jesus. Now?” Saul complained.

“There won’t be a good time. Tell me what happened, baby.”

“I got the shit kicked out of me,” Saul retorted.

“I know that, buddy,” Nacho said patiently. “What else?”

“What do you mean what else? Isn’t that enough?”

“I know what they did to you. The doctor told me what happened,” Nacho looked at Saul, his brown eyes soft like a doe. “I’m so sorry and I’m so pissed off—not at you—. We’re going to get through this together.”

Saul was breathing heavily, his chest shuddering.

“I... I couldn’t stop him. I didn’t...” Saul was staring down at his sheets.

Nacho took ahold of his left hand. “That’s right. You couldn’t stop him because they had a gun and there were three of them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Saul felt a trickle of sweat running through his sideburn.

“Saul, I need to know who did this?” 

Saul drew in a long breath. He was grateful for this slight shift in the topic.

“Did you ask Jesse? I think he knows them. Said one of them goes by Cobra.”

“Oh. I know who they are then. Gang out of Arizona.”

Saul described the attack, much as he had for Walt.

“I’m so proud of you, buddy. That must have been terrifying.”

“It wasn’t heroic, Ignacio,” Saul said. He was voice was tinged with anger. “I didn’t feel like there was a choice. I wasn’t giving up Heisenberg.”

“Still--what they put you through…” Nacho gazed at Saul intently. “Do you want to get back at them? Do you want me to fuck them up?” Nacho asked matter-of-factly, like he was asking if he should pick up the milk.

Saul felt a chill pulse through his body. A decent man would say ‘no.‘ He wanted to be a decent man. But he knew he wasn’t. He’d manipulated people and ripped them off. He’d been a party to the most vicious of dealings. Hell, he’d set up prison shankings. While Jimmy McGill had skirted the edge as a con man, Saul Goodman had a darker setting on his moral compass.

The thought of the gunman walking around enjoying life made Saul want to puke—more—he felt he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t be himself while the gunman walked free. But the justice system was no option. Saul couldn’t be honest with the cops without dragging Walt into the morass. The right and proper balance of the world needed to be restored and the only way that was happening was with some good old frontier justice.

“Yes,” Saul answered to Nacho’s query. “Fuck them up.”

**********

Later in the afternoon, the nurse arrived wanting to give Saul a sponge bath. Nacho took the cloth from her, giving her a wily smile. Nacho escorted the nurse out of the room and closed the door. 

Saul was dozing, so Nacho started lightly with his left arm. Feeling Nacho’s touch and smelling his cologne, Saul roused. Opening his eyes he smiled to see Nacho with the wash cloth. Nacho moved up Saul’s neck to his face and on to his shoulders.

“Do you want to get a shave too?” Nacho asked referring to the stubble on Saul’s face.

“No, I might keep it. You know, change up my look a little bit... the later Beatles.”

“Would you stop with your gringo references. You know I don’t know what you’re talking about half the time.”

“Come on. Who doesn’t know the Beatles?”

“Cállate,” Nacho replied. He got up into the bed and straddled Saul, working his way in between the air hose and IVs. Nacho took extra care not to brush up against Saul’s right side ribs or chest; he shifted his weight to his opposite leg. Nacho untied the hospital gown and worked it off. He leaned down and licked Saul on the chest along the sternum. Saul’s head pulled back and he whimpered. It felt so good to be touched in a tender way, especially near his injuries. Nacho took the wash cloth and very gently rubbed Saul’s upper chest. Saul had locked his blue eyes on Nacho. Nacho then moved down to the mid-section and delicately navigated around the wrappings.

“Jesus, Saul, have you seen this? These bruises are pitch black,” Nacho remarked, examining the contusions that were creeping out from the wrappings.

Saul continued staring up into Nacho’s brown eyes. He seemed lost in a reverie. Saul reached with his left arm and grabbed Nacho’s shirt, pulling him down. He gave him a greedy kiss on the mouth and Nacho returned the passion. Nacho wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. He wanted to grab Saul, and push into him, but he was afraid to touch Saul’s chest. He put one hand on the pillow and another on Saul’s shoulder. Saul sensed the hesitation and he pulled back. He grasped Nacho’s forearm. “Despacito, mi amor,” Saul told him. 

Nacho returned to the bath. He tenderly massaged Saul’s stomach, careful to stay away from the injured ribs and the nasty bruises. Then Nacho moved down to Saul’s thigh. When Nacho touched him there, it was like a bolt of electricity coursed through Saul’s body. He arched his head back. “Does that feel good?” Nacho asked leaning in and kissing Saul. As he did so, his hand moved further up the thigh, closer to Saul’s cock. 

Saul flinched. His mind was flooded with memories of the gunman. He could smell the man’s sweat. He could feel the pressure on his waist as the gunman pulled at his belt buckle. He could hear the cackling of the attackers. Saul squirmed and pulled away. “Don’t,” Saul said, pushing Nacho away. 

“OK, OK, I’ve stopped,” Nacho said holding up both of his hands.

Nacho dismounted and took a seat in the chair. Seeing the far off look in Saul’s eyes, Nacho said “Saul, it’s me, Ignacio. I’m not going to hurt you.” Nacho reached out for Saul’s left hand and he let Nacho take it.

“Ignacio?” Saul said, disoriented. “I’m sorry. What did I do?”

“Don’t worry about it, buddy. It’s my fault; I pushed you too far. It’s too soon.”

*****

On his fourth day in the hospital, the doctor started to wean Saul from the ventilator. Saul was ecstatic; it meant that he was no longer bedridden and as helpless as a tied up animal. In fact the nurses encouraged him to go for walks around the ward whenever he was off the ventilator. They also took the bandages off his eye and temple. Saul couldn’t see the gruesome black eye that had been concealed by the bandage; others recoiled from it.  
Perhaps due to Saul’s improved condition, Nacho announced that he had to go to ‘work’ that day—a situation that always amused Saul. What constituted work for a gangster? The lawyer didn’t want to know.

Saul felt a bit relieved to have a break from Nacho. His presence was a little suffocating. It was like Nacho wanted something from him that he could not provide. At the same time, Saul felt guilty. Nacho had been so dedicated these last couple of days, doting on him in a sweet, compassionate way that was actually rare in their relationship. Saul recognized that Nacho was having a calming effect on him; Nacho’s compulsion to defend Saul made him feel safe and protected. If only Nacho had been there that night… Saul felt a tinge as he realized he was angry that Nacho hadn’t been there. It was irrational, and that made Saul feel even more guilty, but there it was.

There was a knock on the door, followed by a long pause, and in walked Jesse Pinkman. Saul felt a rush of blood to his head as his heart skipped a beat.

“Hey, Jesse.”

“Hey, I hope you don’t mind. Me stopping by.”

“No, I’m glad you came. I haven’t seen you since…”

“I actually stopped in that night. You don’t remember?”

“What can I say? I’ve been a little out of it,” Saul said, pointing to his bruised temple. “They got you too?” Saul indicated the bruise on Jesse’s face.

“Oh, this? That’s nothing. I mean, not compared to...” After a long pause Jesse continued, “How are you holding up?”

“Getting better every day. Listen, Jesse, I got to thank you for hanging in there with me.”

“You already did. Saul. And, I, actually, I should apologize to you. You would have been fine. If you’d been alone… I mean. I brought that load of shit down on you. They recognized me. I’m so sorry.” Jesse’s voice wavered. 

“You’re not to blame, Jesse.”

The nurse entered the room. “Time for your meds.” The nurse paused a moment, studying Saul. “I like that beard. Are you going to keep it?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“I like it too,” Jesse chimed in. Saul looked over at Jesse and saw the sapphire blue eyes from his dream; he couldn’t look away.

“I’m thinking we need to replace this IV line,” the nurse stated, starting to work on undoing the tape that held it in place. She got out a new catheter and roll of tape.

“Can you help me, young man?” She asked Jesse. “Just hold your finger here while I get this taped down. Here, put on this glove first.”

Jesse did as instructed, and when he was done, his hand brushed along Saul’s arm. Saul reached out his hand longingly, but only succeeded in brushing Jesse back.  
“Hey, I went and got your car. It’s at my place. ‘Cause I don’t know where you live. Or if you want it at work. Or what.”

“Thanks, Jesse. That’s great. I was worried about it.”

“Yeah, no worries, yo. I took it to the car wash. And everything.” Jesse fished in his pocket and produced Saul’s key ring.

Saul reached out for the keys and was propelled back to that night… he could see the blood on the hood of the car and recalled the terrifying knowledge that it was his blood. 

Jesse saw the change in Saul’s demeanor: the smile disappeared from his face and his lips became thin; he turned pale. “Are you okay?” Jesse asked, embarrassed at his question because clearly Saul wasn’t.

Saul was breathing faster. “It’s all good,” he said with a weak voice. “Car just brought up some nasty memories.”

“It’s all straight now. Cleaned up and shiny.” Jesse didn’t tell Saul how he’d had the driver side mirror fixed—he didn’t want to trigger another of whatever that was.

*****

Soon Saul was enjoying a morphine induced nap. He plummeted into a deep sleep. And there to meet him was the angel Jesse.

_“Let me show you something,” Jesse says, holding out his hand for Saul. The lawyer climbs out of the hospital bed and grasps Jesse’s hand. They head out the door of the hospital room straight into the night of the attack. Saul stops dead._

_“You’re safe now. They can’t hurt you. This is just a dream,” Jesse tells him._

_“How do I know?”_

_“Look at your ribs…” Saul feels through the hospital gown. The wrappings are gone and there is no pain. He shifts the gown and sees that there are no bruises._

_“I’m healed,” Saul declares, realizing that his voice is strong._

_“Remember, it’s a dream. In the dream you’re healed. And you can’t be hurt.”_

_Saul’s Cadillac is there, with blood smeared on the hood. Saul recoils at the sight of it. Jesse grabs him by the shoulders and turns Saul to look at the car. “It’s just blood,” Jesse says, “are you bleeding now?”_

_“No.”  
“That’s right. It’s just a memory. Take some water and wash it off.” There is a bucket of water next to the car and Saul splashes the water across the hood. The water dilutes the blood and makes swirling patterns before the liquid turns crystal clear and runs down the side of the car. Saul smiles at Jesse._

_“Am I protected from them?” Saul asks, indicating the three attackers who appear in a fog behind the car. Jesse urges him forward but Saul holds his ground. “You are protected. They can’t hurt you as long as you don’t believe in them,” Jesse says, squeezing Saul’s hand and leading him toward the attackers._

_The gunman raises his revolver, pointing it at them. “It can’t hurt you,” Jesse whispers._

_“Cut the bullshit, Pinkman. You and I both know what this gun can do,” the gunman sneers._

_“Saul, don’t listen to him,” Jesse instructs, but the gunman fires, hitting Saul in the chest. An explosion of pain rips through him. He stumbles backward, falling to the ground. “Saul!!” Jesse yells._

_Jesse kneels down beside him and takes ahold of his hand. Saul looks up at him with confusion, his eyes growing watery. “Saul, you’re dreaming; it’s like you have superpowers, yo. You can’t be hurt if you don’t believe in it.”_

_Saul concentrates on what Jesse is saying and wills himself to see the attackers as a dream. As he stares at them, they became diffuse and melt away. Saul feels the pain abating. He looks at his hospital gown; the red stain that had been growing a moment ago is now shrinking back._

_“That’s it, Saul. You’re in charge here. Know what’s cool? You can bring me up anytime. Even if you’re awake. Just think of me and I’ll be there to remind you that you’re in control and safe.”_


	6. Coming Home

Later that day, Francesca arrived with a banker’s box full of case material. Though she had been part of the group in the waiting room the other night, this was the first time she was visiting Saul.

She came in like a whirlwind, tidying things up in the dimly lit room, and resisting the temptation to turn on the overhead lights so that she could do a more thorough job with the cleaning.

When she finally slowed down and looked at Saul, she was taken aback. Hooked up to the ventilator, growing his scraggly beard, and with his black eye, he looked old and vulnerable. All of the pithy quips she’d been entertaining deflated. “Ay dios mio, Saul. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“They’ve got me so pumped full of drugs, Franny, I’m in my happy place,” Saul replied, a hint of cheerfulness in his voice.

“I don’t know that your ‘happy place’ and making legal decisions are compatible.”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it. Chuck will be making the decisions. We just have to pick out the cases. Let’s snap to it.”

Soon Saul and Francesca fell into a routine. She’d read a little about the case. Saul would make a few comments and they’d delegate the case to one of three piles: Chuck/ Not Chuck/ Maybe. The Not Chuck pile was outpacing the Chuck pile by a large margin—a vestige of Saul’s reluctance to accept help from his brother.   
Meanwhile, Francesca had been avoiding one case in particular: Tommy Sullivan. But now they were getting to the bottom of the pile. Saul noticed that she had set the case aside.

“What’s that one over there?” he probed.

“Chuck can handle this one,” Francesca asserted.

“What is it?”

“Tommy Sullivan,” she said with clipped words, hoping to intimidate Saul from delving into the case.

“No. That goes in the ‘Not Chuck’ pile,” Saul told her.

“Saul…” Francesca protested, unsure how best to argue her case.

Tommy Sullivan was accused of raping his young girlfriend. She was old enough, but apparently had not consented. When she said ‘no,’ Tommy beat the crap out of her and raped her. Well, that’s what he was accused of. Francesca thought Saul should stay away from an _assault_ case. She didn’t realize that the _rape_ held its own trigger. And for Saul’s part, he assumed that Francesca was being protective _because_ of the rape. If she knew, everyone knew. Who the hell was the leak: Nacho? Jesse? Chuck? Who told _Francesca_ , for Christ’s sake?

“Sullivan goes in the Not Chuck pile. Now let’s finish up, Franny, I’m exhausted.” Francesca recognized obstinate Saul and she knew there was no arguing. 

*********

In the evening, the doctor told Saul that most likely he could go home the next day if his numbers kept improving. Nacho wanted to be sure that no stressors interfered with Saul’s recovery, so he resolved to keep away any visitors.

“If you get out tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll be able to take you home,” Nacho told Saul. “I’ve got to work.”

“Oh, there’s some legs you have to break?” Saul quipped.

“Something like that,” Nacho replied. Saul swallowed hard. He found this aspect of Nacho’s character terrifying and yet attractive. He wasn’t sure why it was attractive, other than it felt great to have Nacho on his side. Until the other night, Saul had felt downright invincible: he could talk his way out of anything, and if that failed, he had Nacho to do the dirty work. Now the whole equation was in disarray.

“And these legs, you have to break them tomorrow?” Saul touched his nose. He was currently off the ventilator but the breathing tube was having a phantom effect and it felt like it was still there.

“Saul, you know I don’t have say over that. It’s not like an appointment that can be rescheduled.”

Saul was frustrated by Nacho’s lack of availability. He gave Kim a call to see if she could take him home.

“Jimmy, I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to get back to see you. This case I’m working on is all-consuming,” Kim apologized.

“A real behemoth, huh? Chuck told me… don’t worry about it,” Saul found himself consoling Kim.

“No, Jimmy, it’s not right. You needed me and I wasn’t there.”

“Don’t ever testify on your own behalf. You’re guilty as charged,” Saul chuckled. “But, hey, just checking…could you give me a lift tomorrow?”

“Aw, I’ll be in court all day. Are you going home tomorrow. So soon? That’s great.”

“It’ll be _five_ days.”

“Oh… how are you doing, Jimmy?”

“Better, obviously.”

“No, seriously, how are you doing with _everything_?”

Oh, shit, did Kim know _everything_ too?

“Can you come over one night and we’ll catch up?” Saul asked.

“OK, sure, I think I can swing that. Cucumber water and you doing my nails?”

“How about _you_ do _my_ nails?”

“OK, you got it.”

*******

In the end, it was Jesse who took Saul home. 

Jesse used the valet service so that he could walk out with Saul, carrying his belongings for him. Jesse placed the banker’s box and a bag in the back of the car and then opened the passenger door for Saul. The lawyer had a hard time getting into the seat. Once seated Jesse noticed him clutching at his ribs.  
Jesse’s car had also taken a beating the other night. One of the back windows in the compact station wagon had been completely destroyed and in its place Jesse had taped up some cardboard. The window on the driver side was cracked in a spider web pattern, tendrils reaching out from a center point, spreading in all directions.

“Jesse, you need to get these windows fixed,” Saul informed him. 

“Seriously? _You’re_ worried about _my_ windows.”

“Well, I imagine that _you_ , of all people, _do not want_ to be pulled over. Am I right?” Jesse had a doubtful look on his face. “It’s a ticketable offense. You don’t need Albuquerque PD jumping on your ass for a broken window, only to have them discover something much more illicit. Listen to your lawyer, Jesse.”

“Alright already, I’ll get the windows fixed, yo,” Jesse relented.

“Did that happen the other night?”

“Yeah, they broke in and found my stash. We were looking to, you know, expand our territory or whatever.”

“You mentioned one guy was called Cobra. Do you know who those other dickwads were?”

“I don’t know their names. I think they’re from a gang led by a guy called Devlin or Declan or something.”

Saul nodded.

“Why are you asking, Saul? You’re not going to press charges? Or anything?” Jesse asked.

Saul didn’t feel like going into the legal technicalities of ‘pressing charges.’ “No… you met Nacho?” he asked.

“Scary Mexican dude? He’s your boyfriend?” Jesse felt awkward asking the question.

“Yep. Nacho wants to avenge me.”

“How romantic,” Jesse replied.

“About the other night, kid. You didn’t tell anyone what really went down, did you?”

“Uh, you mean the part where he ra…”

Saul cut Jesse off with a curt, “Yeah, yeah.”

“No.”

“And what about Chuck? Do you think he told anyone?”

“Yo, what is it with Chuck? Why does he wear aluminum foil? And no. I didn’t hear him tell anybody. Nacho either.”

“Chuck suffers from Electromagnetic Hypersensitivity.”

“Huh?”

“He gets sick when he’s in electric fields. He doesn’t usually leave the house, so I was surprised to see him at the hospital.”

They drove a couple of miles in silence and arrived at Jesse’s house where Saul’s Cadillac was parked in the driveway next to the RV. Saul started to get out of the car but then realized it wasn’t going to be easy with his ribs.

“Hey, kid, can I get a hand?” Saul called over to Jesse who was busy with Saul’s belongings. Ordinarily Saul would be too embarrassed to ask for help, but all he could think about was the angel Jesse and those damn blue eyes. Jesse came over, offered a forearm, and gently pulled Saul out of the seat.

“Are you gonna be okay to drive home?” Jesse asked.

“The driving part is easy; it’s the in and out that might get me.”

“Then let me drive you home. I can take the bus back. It’s no problem, yo. We’re not cooking today—I have plenty of time.”

Jesse transferred Saul’s belongings to the Cadillac and helped the older man into the passenger seat. Saul gave Jesse directions.

“Isn’t that the ‘hood?” Jesse inquired.

“Not for long. It’s gentrifying.”

“What? Is that some kind of made-up Saul word?”

“No. It’s a real thing. It’s where people with money come into a struggling neighborhood, snatch up the real estate, and rehab the classic old homes.”

“Oh, so you kick out the poor and steal their homes?” 

“Exactly. Kind of like an anti-Robin Hood,” replied Saul with refreshing honesty. Jesse smiled.

“Speaking of Robin Hood… who is this ‘Rebel Without a Cause?’”

“Oh, you purloined my contact list?”

“If you mean I hacked your phone, yeah. I’m the Code Breaker.”

“You have heard of James Dean? You remind me of him. He was a great actor—the best of his generation, but he died young.”

“Oh, great, so you think I’m going to die young?”

“No, Jesus, I hope not. I was also thinking of the rebellious part: you live close to the edge… But you cracked the code on my address book—that’s why there were so many people at the hospital. Thanks for that. It meant a lot.”

Jesse was unfamiliar with this sensible, normal, non-flamboyant Saul. He guessed five days in the hospital took its toll. There Saul sat wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and an unbuttoned blue denim shirt. Jesse couldn’t believe he even had clothes like that.

“If you want to see the movie, I have the DVD. We could watch it sometime,” Saul was saying, then suddenly he added, “Oh, snap!” And Saul actually snapped his fingers. Jesse suppressed a chuckle at the literalness of Saul’s gesture.

“What’s up?” Jesse asked.

“I forgot… I have to fill a prescription.”

“No probs, yo. We can stop by your pharmacy.” 

When Jesse parked the Caddy in the parking lot of the pharmacy, Saul just sat there, staring straight ahead. To break him out of his trance, Jesse placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s a different pharmacy, Saul. Broad daylight. Nothing’s gonna happen here.”

Saul swallowed hard.

“Do you want me to go in with you?”

“No,” Saul scoffed, “I’m not afraid of pharmacies…” he continued to stare at the building. “OK, yeah, if you could come with me that would be great.”

After an uneventful visit to the pharmacy, they arrived at Saul’s home. It was a pale moss green bungalow. Jesse had been expecting something more ostentatious; instead, the house was charming and down right un-Saul-like.

“ _This_ is _your_ house? I thought you’d have an Uncle Sam lawn ornament or something.”

“Don’t let my professional persona confuse you. I’m a complex man. Do you want to come inside? It is a craftsman.”

“Okay… Sure,” Jesse said.

After helping Saul out of the car, Jesse retrieved Saul’s belongings and followed him up to the front door. The house had a comfortable front porch with flower boxes and two adirondak chairs. You could actually sit on this porch and if it was Jesse’s, he totally would. Once inside, Jessie was further impressed. Everything looked expensive yet comfortable. The threshold to the living room was framed by built in bookshelves and tapered wood columns. The living room featured exposed natural wood beams. 

“Can you believe the previous owners painted all this wood white?” Saul asked.

“No…” Jesse replied; Saul must have gone through a hell of an effort to restore the natural wood. “Where should I put this stuff?” Jesse asked referring to the bag and banker’s box.

“The bedroom for the bag and the office for the box,” and Saul led the way.

“So you live here with Nacho?” Jesse queried, having difficulty imagining Nacho appreciating the aesthetics of the house. Saul’s hand paused on the door knob to the bedroom.

“No, no. He’s my partner, but we don’t live together.”

“Oh, ‘cause at the hospital Nacho said you were domestic partners. Which I thought meant you were shacking up.”

“Nacho exaggerates sometimes. The bed with that,” Saul said regarding his bag. He started going through it.

“You know that Nacho ran with Tuco Salamanca?” Jesse asked.

“Yeah. Unfortunately I met Tuco… actually it was very similar to _our_ first meeting.”

“Oh, out in the desert? Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“I got over it.”

“Right. You got over _that_ like you’ll get over _this_ ,” Jesse reasoned.

Saul was silent, but Jesse could see the muscle in his jaw tense.

“Jesse, do you know where my wallet is?”

“They took it.”

“They?”

“You know, Cobra and them.”

“Aw, fuck,” Saul sat down heavily on the bed, looking defeated. “So they know where I live?” The color drained from Saul’s face. He opened a cabinet door in his night stand and took out a bottle of Dewar’s. Then he opened up one of the prescription bags and took out the bottle of Hydrocodone. “Do you want a drink?” Saul offered. Jesse could see the lawyer’s hand trembling as he poured a glass. 

“No. I have thirty days clean.”

“Good for you,” Saul said, then popped the pill and picked up the glass.

“What are you doing, yo? You can’t chase a Hydro with whiskey!” Saul swallowed the pill.

“Looks like I can and did,” Saul replied, irritated.

Jesse rubbed a hand down his face. “So about the wallet. I could stay over if you want. Like until Nacho can be here or whatever. We could watch that movie. Or, if you want to be alone, you can get shit-faced to the point where you forget you’re scared, ” Jesse said.

Saul scrutinized the young man, but then he caught a glimpse of those intense blue eyes. His stomach did a somersault.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Saul heard himself saying, against his deepest wishes.

“What about a friend?” Jesse asked. Saul contemplated the bruise on Jesse’s face and remembered the kid got it trying to defend him.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Yeah, totally. I don’t have plans tonight… My friends are still using. But you have to take it easy with the Hydro, yo. I don’t need you to be tempting me.”

“Okay. You can stay in the guest room… I’ll show you where,” Saul gestured.

“No. I’ll sleep on the couch. Guard duty, yo.”

“It’s a great napping couch… but if you change your mind, guest room’s down the hall and to the right. I’m gonna take a shower—wash off the hospital cooties. Do you want to order a pizza?”

********

When the pizza arrived, Saul popped in the DVD. Right away Jesse was chuckling at a drunken James Dean, 1950s style. Saul groaned to himself a little, realizing how dated the movie was. 

“And this doofus reminds you of me?” Jesse asked, almost offended.

“Trust me. It’s a big compliment. For real, you’ve never heard of James Dean?”

“Yeah, Jimmy Dean, isn’t that some kind of sausage?” Jesse offered.

Saul laughed.

“Speaking of which… why do people call you Jimmy?”

“That’s my real name: James McGill.”

“Get out of here. So ‘Saul Goodman’ is made up?”

“Yep: S’all good, man.”

Jesse laughed, “My buddies and me figured that one out one night when we were hitting the pipe.”

“That’s my target audience.”

The two settled back in to watching the movie. Jesse found the acting stilted and had difficulty getting into it. He laughed at the dramatic moments. “You’re tearing me apart!” elicited a howl of laughter. But then came the knife scene. 

Jesse looked carefully at Saul. He seemed relaxed, eating pizza contentedly. Jesse worried that the fight scene might be a trigger. He searched for a distraction.

“What the hell happened to your hand?” Jesse asked, taking ahold of Saul’s badly bruised right hand. 

“Oh, that’s from the IV. They stuck me like a pin cushion. It looks worse than it is.”

Jesse didn’t release Saul’s hand. “You’re so different than who I had imagined.”

“Who’d you imagine?” Saul squeezed Jesse’s hand.

“I guess I bought into your Saul Goodman act.”

Saul was gazing intently into Jesse’s eyes and for the first time Jesse noticed that Saul’s eyes were blue, an icy blue. Saul lifted Jesse’s hand to his mouth and gave it a kiss.

“I’m not gay,” Jesse protested but he left his hand in Saul’s warm palm.

“No one said you were. You don’t need to be to experiment.”

“Is that what this is?” Jesse asked, surreptitiously glancing at the TV. The fight scene was still playing. Jesse didn’t want Saul to turn back to the TV. But equally, he had to admit, he was interested in ‘experimenting.’ Jesse leaned in and Saul met him for a kiss. It was tentative and searching at first. Jesse was taken aback by the bristles of Saul’s beard. He found the beard attractive, though. It represented this new Saul who was so unlike the man he thought he knew. Jesse became more passionate with the kiss, pressing in with urgency. Saul broke off only to kiss Jesse on the throat. His tongue explored Jesse’s neck, nipping him with gentle kisses. Saul was careful not to leave any embarrassing marks that Jesse would have to explain.

Saul pulled back and looked Jesse in the eyes. “How do you like that?”

“It’s all good, man.” Jesse replied laughing.

Jesse put a hand on Saul’s thigh. Saul moaned. He picked up Jesse’s hand. “Jesse, I want you, but I have to take a raincheck.” 

“Okay. I get it. You’re not ready. But we’re gonna finish this experiment later.”

“Absolutely.”


	7. Coral Sunset

On Friday night, Kim was finally able to free up some time and she came over to Saul’s. “Did you bring the goods?” Saul asked when he opened the door. Kim was thrown off by Saul’s appearance: his black eye had not quite healed and he had a dark shadow under the other eye. He appeared to have lost weight and was even paler than usual. This was the first time Kim was seeing him with a beard. She wanted to tell him he looked good, but she couldn’t lie.

Kim reached into a grocery bag, “One cucumber and… five different colors of nail polish,” she said in a cheery voice that sought to somehow overcome Saul’s pallor.

“Outstanding!” Saul said, rubbing his hands together. He took the cucumber from Kim and gestured for her to follow him into the kitchen. “So what’s this big case?” Saul asked, reaching for a knife to slice the cucumber.

“It’s a hostile workplace case. We started with just the one plaintiff and it mushroomed to seven. But really, Jimmy, I’m so sick of it… I don’t want to talk about it… it’s just all these all-consuming depositions… How are you doing?” Kim asked, taking her glass of cucumber water.

“Well, I’ve been working from home this week. Getting ready for some court appearances next week.” They walked out to the living room and took seats on the couch.  
“But _how are you_?” Kim repeated.

“I’m in a little pain—only when I breathe,” Saul laughed but then he saw Kim looking at him with concern, her brow furrowed. “My doctor says I’m making good progress,” he hastened to add.

“I’m happy to hear that. You look pale, Jimmy.”

“Well, I haven’t really been outside in two weeks. But the doc says he wants me going for walks. Good for the old lung capacity.”

“We could go for a walk tonight.” Saul regarded Kim carefully, he was almost annoyed at her silly idea.

“Ehn, I prefer the daylight. Besides, you said I need some sun.”

“Alright, it’s time to pick your color. We have ‘Past Curfew’ which is your standard red, ‘Juicy Sangria’ which is more of a maroon, ‘Cool Breeze’ which is a blue, goes with your eyes, ‘Midnight Rendezvous’ which is basically black, and finally, one I think you’ll really like, ‘Coral Sunset,’ an orange.”

“Ooh, I do like Coral Sunset. But how about a pearlescent white, like my Caddy?” Saul asked.

“Shoot. That would have been perfect. I could go back...”

“No, that’s okay. We’ll go with Coral Sunset.”

Saul and Kim moved to the dining room table in order to have a flat surface to work on. When Kim started on the second coat Saul asked what she was doing. Kim explained that it’s a three coat process.

“Three coats!” Saul protested, “we’ll be doing this all night.”

“You want it done right, don’t you?”

“Two things come to mind: first of all, you know I’m taking this stuff off as soon as you leave.”

Kim nodded her assent.

“And secondly, I must have made a holy mess of your nails when I did them.”

Kim nodded at that too. They both laughed.

“OK, so long as we’re playing from the same sheet of music.”

The phone rang, but Saul made no effort to answer. Kim assumed it was because his nails were wet. “Do you want me to get that?”

“No, let the machine get it.”

Saul’s voice came on: “This is Saul. I’m not home. You know the drill. Except if you’re some kind of solicitor you should hang up now, and politicians and charities that means you. (And no, your charity isn’t special enough to earn an exception). Now, everyone else, go ahead and leave a message,” followed by a beep. The caller neither hung up nor left a message, but instead kept the line open in an eery silence. Kim was a little wigged out by it while Saul just closed his eyes for a beat.

“Have you been getting hang up calls?” Kim asked. Saul’s mouth was dangling open, his tongue playing with a molar. Kim recognized it as a nervous tick.

“No,” Saul answered unconvincingly.

“Jimmy, who’s making hang up calls?” Kim asked, her tone urgent.

“It could be all kinds of people: an unhappy client (although that’s not really possible: I make sure no one’s ever unhappy), someone who likes my ads, someone who hates my ads. An ex-con.”

“Them?” Kim suggested.

“It could be them.”

“Oh my God, Jimmy. How would they get your number? Aren’t you unlisted?”

“They have my wallet.”

“Jimmy! Have you told the police?”

“The police? What are they going to do? No, I haven’t told the police. I haven’t even been cooperating in the investigation—I mean I’ve been talking to the police, but I haven’t told them anything meaningful.” Kim looked confused, almost angry. “If I tell the police everything it puts my client’s identity at risk and I just can’t do that.”

“Who? That kid in the oversized hoodie?”

“No, not Jesse. His partner. They mistook me for his partner. I can’t let the police get involved in that.” Saul took a sip of the cucumber water. “I need something stronger. Do you want a drink?”

“Yeah,” Kim replied. Saul took a bottle out of the china cabinet and poured two glasses of whiskey. He drained his glass in one shot and refilled it.

“Kim, I need to ask you something.”

“Yeah, of course, Jimmy, anything…”

Saul looked down at his hands, inspecting the partially finished nail job like a paying customer. “What did Chuck and Nacho tell people about what happened? Did they mention rape?”

Kim inhaled sharply and put her hand to her mouth, “Oh my God, Jimmy, you were raped?” Kim’s eyes filled with tears. Flustered, she remembered Saul’s original question, “No, no one told us about a rape.”

Saul exhaled and dropped his head, “Thank God.”

Kim grasped Saul’s hand, “Sweetie, how are you managing? Are you seeing someone? A therapist?”

“No,” Saul scoffed, “I’m okay. Just having some nightmares and flashbacks.”

“I think that’s probably normal. But you should see someone that can help process what happened to you.”

“I don’t see how talking about it with a stranger is going to help.”

“Because they have experience with this kind of thing… Do you want to tell me about your nightmares?”

“Mostly they’re a repeat of that night, but usually worse. A lot of them involve Chuck. In the dreams, he’s in cahoots with the three attackers. Often they’re in the desert—‘cause you know in real life, I’ve seen some shit go down out there,” Saul took in a deep breath and coughed shallowly. “And sometimes the dream is positive. Jesse is there and he’s an angel. He’s there to help me forget.” Saul lit up when he mentioned Jesse.

“You have a thing for him?” Kim deduced.

“What?”

“Jesse. You have a thing for him.”

“Yeah, okay, a little bit.”

“He’s very attractive.”

“Yes, have you seen his beautiful blue eyes?” Saul rubbed his nose. “Hey, what about you? Are you over that fool with the low brain wattage who walked out on you?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty much over Ron. Not seeing anybody else. It’s the workload, Jimmy, that’s why Ron left, that’s why I haven’t found anybody new.”

“Is this the kind of law you want to be doing?”

“Yeah, I love it. I love being first chair.”

“Then I guess you have to suck it up and make the case load work. My dad was a lawyer, worked like a piston, always in overdrive. And he was a drunken bastard. I’m not sure which was the prime reason Mom left him.”

“That’s encouraging…”

“I’m just saying, you have to make some tough choices.” Kim had resumed painting Saul’s nails and was now finished with the third coat.

“How do you like your new look?” Kim asked, patting Saul’s hand.

“They’re the bomb. They look great!” Saul answered.

“Now promise me you’ll wait ’til tomorrow before you take the polish off.” She passed him a bottle of nail polish remover. Despite Kim’s admonishments about doing things with his nails wet, Saul poured himself another glass of whiskey. Kim had hardly touched hers. 

“OK, I’ll wait ’til tomorrow,” he promised.

********

The next morning Saul was awakened by the sun slipping through the slats of the blinds. He’d had another nightmare; this one was in a dark alley in Cicero. Marco was having his heart attack and Saul was trying to save him when the three attackers and Chuck showed up. They pulled Saul away from Marco and held him back as he watched his friend die. Then, as they always did, they assaulted him.

He had a nasty headache and wanted to go back to sleep, but he figured he’d just have another nightmare. The bad dreams left him feeling drained like he hadn’t slept at all. 

He got out of bed and got dressed, selecting a Rush t-shirt and jeans. His ribs and chest were feeling pretty good, but his head was pounding so he took a hydrocodone. Saul noted that there was only one pill left and the bottle indicated, “No Refills”. He’d been eating them like they came from a PEZ dispenser, and he didn’t want to stop this new habit. The hydros gave him a bit of a euphoric buzz, much more profound than anything the Xanax did. He needed to get more.  
Saul grabbed his laptop from his home-office and sat down on the couch. He booted up Solitaire… he figured he’d play until the headache calmed down and then maybe do some prep work for Monday. He had to conduct an interview in the Sullivan case and he was nowhere near ready for that.

Soon, he was dozing on the couch, sitting up straight, with his hand poised on the laptop. About forty-five minutes later he was awakened by a knocking at the door followed by the sound of keys in the lock. This was Nacho. Saul was anxious to see him; he hadn’t been around for a few days.

Nacho slammed the door and Saul jumped up from the couch, feeling a twinge in his ribs. Nacho entered the living room and dropped a bag, letting it thump to the floor. Saul looked at Nacho’s face and understood the agitation of his entrance. Nacho had a black eye, a split lip, other bruises on his face and he was holding his side as if his ribs had been injured.

“Mi amor, what happened?” Saul asked.

“There’s a full on drug war raging. A fight for territory in the ‘War Zone’. It started with you and your little friend being outside your turf.”

“ _My_ turf?! _I_ don’t have turf. But never mind that, are _you_ okay?”

“I’m fine, but we got your buddy Cobra good. He won’t be walking for awhile.”

“You were fighting with the gang from Arizona?”

“Yeah. You know, it would help to get descriptions of the other two motherfuckers. I tried to get some photographs for you, but they’re not very good.”

“I didn’t get a good look at their faces… it all happened so fast and it was dark… Let me get you cleaned up.”

Nacho assented and took a seat on a dining room chair. Saul retrieved the first aid kit from the bathroom. He started with a cut around Nacho’s eye. Dabbing hydrogen peroxide on piece of gauze, he cleaned the wound. Nacho pulled back due to the sting of the peroxide. Saul then applied a butterfly bandaid. He addressed the other open wounds similarly and then found ice packs for Nacho’s eye and ribs.

“Hey, I got you a present,” Nacho said when Saul had finished with his doctoring. “Look in the bag; it’s right on top.”

Saul opened up the duffel bag. The first thing he saw was a pistol; he flinched at the sight of it.

“A gun?” Saul asked nervously.

“Yeah, a pistol.”

“And I accuse you of never getting me anything,” the muscles in his stomach tightened and his ribs ached. He was thinking about that last pill.

“You’ll have to learn how to use it. It’s not as simple as they make it on TV.”

“Of course,” Saul agreed.

“Hey, before we mess with that, give me one of your hydrocodones.”

“OK,” Saul replied, trying to sound willing. “But here’s the thing: I only have one left. Is this something you could procure more of for me? I’ve grown quite fond of them.”

Nacho nodded. “I can do that. You need more today?”

“Yep.”

Nacho stepped aside and made a quick phone call. He hung up and told Saul, “Today shouldn’t be a problem.” Nacho picked the pistol up off the table. He showed Saul some of the basics about the gun. “This is a Smith & Wesson 10 mm. Gun safety 101, you always need to know whether your weapon is loaded. Right now, it is. The ammo is in a clip which fits inside the handle.” Nacho removed the clip. “There may be a bullet or spent cartridge in the chamber. You remove that by racking the gun like so.” Nacho gripped the slide and pulled it back. “This is the safety. Keep it on at all times unless you’re getting ready to shoot.”

Nacho handed Saul the gun and for the first time, noticed the fingernail polish. “What the fuck is this?” Nacho asked, gripping Saul’s left hand.

“Oh, Kim did my nails,” Saul answered sheepishly.

“You’re not turning into a flamer on me?”

“No! We were just messing around.”

“Well, wipe that shit off; this is serious business.”

Saul left to clean up his nails. When he came back, Nacho had him go through several iterations of loading the clip and racking the gun.

“So, when do you see me using this gun? Because I’ve got to tell you, it makes me uncomfortable,” Saul asked.

“Uncomfortable?! It’s supposed to have the opposite effect, buddy. I want you to feel safe. When you get those hang up calls, I want you to know you’re protected in case those fuckitos get some balls and actually show up.”

Saul swallowed hard. “I don’t know… I can’t see myself shooting someone.”

“Even after what they did to you? You’ve got to protect yourself, Saul. If I were you, you couldn’t hold me back from taking those fuckers out. Let’s go over aiming.”  
Nacho showed Saul the correct grip, how to use the sight and the proper stance. He stood behind Saul and straightened out Saul’s arms and repositioned his hands on the pistol. “When you pull the trigger—and don’t do this now—but you squeeze with just the tip of finger.”

Nacho gently pushed up against Saul, his hard cock nudging Saul’s ass. Nacho reached around and took the gun. Checking the safety, he placed the gun on the table. He then put his hands on Saul’s shoulders and spun him around so he could give him a kiss. It was deep and filled with longing, almost smothering. Saul could feel Nacho’s desire and knew that it was fueled by two weeks of denial. Saul felt guilty about that, but didn’t know how to change it.

Nacho groped with his hands, feeling under Saul’s shirt. He found the wrappings on Saul’s ribs and maneuvered away, avoiding the right side. Saul closed his eyes. “I’ve missed you so much, mi amor,” Nacho told him. He then carefully slipped Saul’s shirt off and taking him by the hand, led him to the couch. He gently pushed Saul down on to the leather cushions. Now that he could see the wrappings, with his tongue Nacho traced the outline on the edge of bruising. Saul pulled his head back and let out a low moan. He watched as Nacho made his way down from his ribs across his stomach. Saul tensed. When Nacho reached his belt, a barrage of disturbing thoughts assaulted him. Instead of Nacho, he saw the gunman working his belt. Saul wanted Nacho, he wanted to see him and to be with him, but the image of the gunman was too vivid, it kept imposing itself into the picture. Saul couldn’t control his impulse and he tried to wriggle away from Nacho. Nacho felt the resistance and a familiar disappointment set in.

Saul grabbed Nacho’s hands and took a long look into his face, studying it. He saw the brown doe eyes, beautiful, despite the bruising around the left eye. He saw Nacho’s neatly trimmed beard and reached up to trace it with his fingers as if to emphasize the reality of Nacho’s presence. Saul then pushed at Nacho’s chest and worked his way out from under the gangster. Nacho lay face first on the couch, feeling let down. 

Saul wanted to express his gratitude for Nacho’s protectiveness: the vengeance taken against Cobra, the gun… Saul straddled him from behind, reaching around to undo Nacho’s belt buckle. Saul gripped the buckle and pushed away intrusive thoughts. With renewed energy, Nacho lifted his hips to make the task easier. Then Saul pulled down Nacho’s pants and his briefs. Saul finished undoing his own buckle and then lay down on top of Nacho and began to slowly grind. He whispered in Nacho’s ear “Stay right there.” Saul got up to retrieve some lube from the bedroom. He also brought with him two glasses of whiskey, but had drained his own before reaching the living room.

Saul returned to his position atop Nacho and started to give him a back rub. The palm of his hand found the ropy places in Nacho’s muscles and massaged them with long up and down motions. “Saul, stop dicking around already,” Nacho complained.

“I’m just trying to relieve the tension.”

“That’s not where the tension is.”

Saul had gotten limp while retrieving the lube, so he massaged his own cock until it came back to life, lathering the lube on. He took a deep breath and inserted himself into Nacho. With slow, rhythmic thrusts he penetrated further and further inside. Nacho moaned with each push.

Saul was still distracted. He tried to push images from the attack out of his mind, but the more he tried, the more intrusive the thoughts became. He focused on the back of Nacho’s head, on his kinky black hair. Saul gave Nacho a kiss on the back of his neck. With each thrust a pain radiated in Saul’s ribs. He was determined to push through it. As Saul got closer to climax his breathing quickened and caused a burning in his chest. Surely Nacho sensed the robotic nature of his love making, Saul thought. And then his cock erupted, spilling his cum into Nacho. Saul slumped on top of him exhausted and relieved.

He lay like that for a few moments and then reached around to take ahold of Nacho’s swollen cock. Saul was determined to make the experience as pleasurable as possible for Nacho. He’d felt the cut of Nacho’s frustration earlier and he wanted to stabilize the relationship. Saul pumped Nacho’s cock up and down. “Come here,” Saul whispered in Nacho’s ear. In response, Nacho turned over on the couch. Saul made long rhythmic strokes. The pre-cum glistened on Nacho’s dick. Saul leaned down and licked it off, he then took Nacho inside of his mouth. Nacho came in an explosion, his breath ragged, his own ribs burning. Saul sucked hard and swallowed all of Nacho’s cum. He collapsed atop Nacho, taking care to avoid Nacho’s damaged ribs. Saul felt a little bit victorious, feeling he had at long last satisfied his partner.


	8. Gun Play

Nacho stayed over the weekend. Saul wasn’t feeling his normal garrulous self and found himself ambivalent about Nacho’s presence. While he felt safer with Nacho around, he had a competing desire to be alone. In the end, the two struck a silent compromise: Saul focused on his work while Nacho watched TV. Saul hadn’t been able to complete much work during the past week so he needed to catch up. In particular, he needed to prepare for his interview with the rapist, Tommy Sullivan, but Saul found himself procrastinating on that particular case.

Nacho spent most of the day on the couch, rotating between soccer and shows like “Ice Road Truckers” and “Deadliest Catch.” This was one time Saul was thankful that there was little overlap between his and Nacho’s viewing habits. He found he could contentedly do his work, with the low drone of the TV assuring him that Nacho was near by. In the evening, Nacho took a break from his perch on the couch to make his specialty: burritos. Saul was looking forward to ending his work for the night and enjoying Nacho’s creation. While Nacho didn’t cook much, his burritos suggested an un-tapped talent.

While they were eating, a phone call from a “Private Caller” came through. This time, they left a message of sorts. The sound of a clip being loaded and a gun being racked came through in chilling detail. Saul recognized the sound from having practiced these maneuvers with Nacho. He wondered how they’d know that these sounds in particular would be so familiar to him. But he dismissed the thought; anyone would recognize them as gun sounds. Saul was staring at a knot in the wood of the table. He’d stopped eating.

“Hey!” Nacho called, snapping his fingers. “Hey!” he said louder. “So they have a gun. Now you do too. You have two guns when I’m here.”

“They can actually hit something with their gun,” Saul protested, still staring at the spot on the table.

“We’ll get you some practice.”

 

That night Saul still had the feeling of wanting to be alone. And he definitely didn’t want to be touched. He wanted Nacho around, but at a distance... ‘like a body guard,’ Saul thought and grimaced at the realization. He couldn’t account for his feelings--it was just that he somehow felt vulnerable whenever Nacho touched him. Saul felt guilty, yet helpless to change the situation. He slept fitfully, pulling away whenever Nacho tried to nuzzle in close. When he fell asleep, he was burdened by dreams…

 

_In the dream, Walt and Chuck are there. They have driven Saul out to the desert in the RV. They have dug a grave and have deposited Saul on his knees right at the edge of the hole. Saul’s hands are duct-taped behind his back. He has a gun in a leg holster, but the bindings on his hands give no leeway; there is no getting to that gun. Saul’s knees are hurt; they feel shattered, and in fact there is broken glass all around them. Walt is pointing a gun at Saul and Chuck is screaming at him._

_“Why’d you do it, Jimmy? Why’d you turn your back on the family and take that name?” Saul squints in the face of his brother’s anger._

_Then Walt demands, “Why are you impersonating me, Saul? What’s the matter: you don’t know who you are?” Saul looks from the hole to his brother then back again._

_“You are a deadman, Jimmy. You’re dead to me,” Chuck yells at him._

_“Please don’t do this!” Saul screams, “I don’t know why you’re doing this! Walt you know I didn’t impersonate you. It was a case of mistaken identity!”_

_Walt perfects his stance, taking the gun in both hands, and he squeezes the trigger. The bullet hits Saul in the chest in an explosion of pain, the momentum sends him tumbling into the hole. The landing on his left shoulder is harsh; a pain shoots along his upper arm. With his hands tied behind his back, there is nothing that Saul can do to staunch the flow of blood from his chest wound. He looks down at the red flower growing on his shirt and begins to black out, but he fights to maintain conscious._

_“Jesse! Where are you? I need you now. Jesse!!”_

Saul awoke to Nacho shaking his shoulders. He was drenched in sweat and trembling. He rubbed at his left shoulder as if he’d really injured it.

“What happens in these dreams?” Nacho asked.

“They are fucking nightmares, Ignacio. This one was typical: Walt and Chuck kidnapped me and brought me to the desert. They shot me and threw me in a grave.”

“That’s scary, man.”

“It is so fucking real, more real than this room… I had the gun with me, but I couldn’t get to it,” the pitch in Saul’s voice broke.

“What about Jesse?” Saul had a puzzled look, “You called out for Jesse,” Nacho explained.

“Sometimes he saves me in the dream.”

“Well, in real life that gun will save you. Where is it now?”

“The night stand.”

“Get it out,” Nacho insisted.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Would you rather sleep?”

Saul considered Nacho. “No, sleep’s no good,” he finally agreed, reaching into the night stand for the gun. He checked the safety and handed it to Nacho.

“Put some pants on,” Nacho waited for Saul to dress; the lawyer also changed his sweaty t-shirt. “Now, where are you going to carry your gun?” Nacho asked.

“That depends where I am. It’s illegal to carry this gun outside the house.”

“The whole gun is illegal, Saul, get over it,” Nacho was losing his patience with the whole ordeal.

“I’m just saying, it’s less-illegal in the house. What could be Murder One on the street might just be Manslaughter, even less, Self-defense maybe, in the house.”

“Will you just drop your lawyer routine for a minute?” Nacho asked wearily. The word ‘routine’ stung Saul. He knew he was a spectacle, but deep down he craved legitimacy. “Now how are you going to carry the gun,” Nacho was asking.

“The waistband?” Saul offered like it was a test.

“Good. Front or back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Give them both a try. See what you like.” Saul tried a variety of positions. Each time he pulled the pistol and aimed at the door. He frequently checked that the safety was still on. Finally, Saul found a comfortable carrying position in his front waist band. He practiced this position and the proper firing stance a number of times. 

“OK, great. Now put the gun back in the nightstand.” Saul thought they were done with the impromptu lesson. “Get in bed.” Saul took his pants off and crawled into his side of the bed, on the far side of the nightstand. “Now practice getting the gun.”

“You would be in the way,” Saul pointed out.

“Precisely. You’re gonna have to keep that gun on top of that other little table…” Nacho indicated the table on Saul’s side of the bed, “Or we’re gonna to have to switch places.”

“I don’t want the gun sitting out,” Saul said definitively.

“OK, then, we’ll switch places. Now let’s practice.” This time Nacho turned out the lights. He had Saul get under the covers. “OK. You hear something, a footstep in the hallway.”

“Maybe it’s you.”

“I’m not here,” Nacho answered. Saul fumbled for the gun in the darkness, hitting the gun against the nightstand. “Here practice a few times with the lights on,” Nacho said, turning on the light.

When Saul was retrieving the gun smoothly from the nightstand, Nacho turned the lights out again. “You hear voices out in the hallway,” Nacho prompted him. Saul expertly grasped the gun in the dark and from the bed, pointed at the door. “Now quietly get up into the correct shooter’s stance,” Nacho coached. Saul did as instructed. They went through a few more iterations until Nacho was satisfied, or at least too tired to continue.

Saul couldn’t get to sleep after the gun practice. He was worried about work, his relationship with Nacho, guns… but of course his biggest worry was ‘them’. It didn’t really give him solace that Nacho had ‘fucked up’ Cobra. That just seemed like poking the snake. He thought it probably would have made more sense to bring all three of them down together, and to bring the gunman down the hardest. But how to ensure no further retaliation? How could Nacho be sure that he wasn’t just antagonizing them?

 

On Sunday, Saul dozed a bit during the day, and he’d developed a headache from lack of sleep. He tried to focus on work, but didn’t accomplish much. For parts of the day, he joined Nacho on the couch for “Lucha Libre” and the Discovery Channel. Saul normally turned these shows into comedies through his running commentary but he was so exhausted that he could hardly put together a coherent sentence. Nacho was a stony quiet, his arms folded across his chest. Saul sensed the gulf growing between them; he knew it was mostly his own fault. He had been distant since the attack, sometimes cold, and Nacho was increasingly frustrated. It was like a car collision that you could see unfolding in front of you, but you’re powerless to stop. Saul knew he was creating the gulf, but didn’t know how to stop it; he kept waiting for it just to go away.

 

Sunday night he hardly slept again. When he did, nightmares invaded his tranquility. All his nightmares were the same, really. Just variations on a theme that included the attackers, Chuck, Walt, scary locales, guns, restraints, Saul getting hurt somehow, and then, inevitably Saul being assaulted, unless Jesse showed up. One new aspect popped up in Sunday’s dream: the attackers came to his house… One minute Saul was listening to a phone message with the sound of a gun, the next, the gunman had his left arm wrapped around Saul’s upper chest and a gun pointed to his head. Nacho was there, but held his gun dangling toward the ground. Later, as Saul lay awake he lamented that Nacho’s efforts only seemed to stimulate the dark side of his imagination.

 

On Monday, Saul woke up early and got prepared to return to the office. He didn’t feel quite ready—he was feeling more Jimmy McGill than Saul Goodman. So he paired his navy blue suit with a power shirt: coral, his favorite. He put on a paisley tie with blue and purple swirls and positioned the collar bar underneath the tie to make sure the tie popped. Finally he folded a bright blue handkerchief for his pocket and put on matching socks. He checked himself out in the mirror and, satisfied, shot finger pistols at his reflection and said, “It’s showtime!”

“Do you have to do that every morning?” Nacho’s groggy voice came from the bed.

“Sorry, mi amor. It psyches me up.”

“Let me see you, buddy,” Nacho called. Saul stepped into the bedroom.

“You look good. But, you’re definitely a flamer. You should have kept that nail polish on. Goes with your shirt.”

“A certain somebody made me take it off. Otherwise I would totally be rocking matching nails.”

“Go on, get out of here, you fag. Go free some criminals,” Nacho laughed.

 

As Saul drove into the parking lot and caught a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty above his office, a comforting reassurance bubbled up inside him. Saul loved the trappings of his office and the more he saw them, the more his self-confidence grew.

Francesca met him in the lobby and shocked him with a hearty hug while saying, “Welcome back, Saul.” He figured that he must have been more pathetic in the hospital than he’d thought in order to warrant such a display of warmth from the normally icy Francesca.

“Good to see you too, Honey Tits. It’s good to be back,” Saul replied deliberately antagonizing Francesca to show her that he was, indeed, back. She didn’t bite.

“There’s some files from your brother on your desk,” Francesca informed him.

A large African American man sat by the door to Saul’s office, wearing a navy windbreaker that said “Security” on it. “You must be Huell,” Saul said extending his hand. Huell stood up and gave Saul a wrenching handshake that he felt in his ribs. “Easy there, big fella,” Saul chided him gently. “I’m Saul, and I assume you met Francesca?” Saul checked out his new security guard.

“Hey, Saul, pleasure to meet you,” Huell replied. The man was big, but it was mostly fat. Saul wondered if there was any muscle under there. Still, Huell would make an intimidating presence. Saul would give him a chance.

Saul unlocked the door to his office and surveyed the room. The sight of the constitution on the wall behind his desk reminded Saul of when he first rented the office space and made plans for how to make it more lawyerly. The large “We the People” script was soothingly familiar.

He opened up the banker’s box from Chuck and began scrutinizing the cases. Chuck had left meticulous notes on each. He indicated what actions he had taken, what needs to be done next, and his overall recommended strategy for the case. Saul was surprised, and glad, at the care his brother had given the cases—prostitutes, drug users, drunk drivers and probation violators. Now the big question was ‘what did Chuck think of Saul’s practice?’ He didn’t want to care but if he was being honest, he cared.

Saul had to head over to the jailhouse in the early afternoon to interview Tommy Sullivan. The thought made Saul nauseous on two counts. He was unprepared and, despite the low brow impression made by all of Saul’s promotional ploys, he was a dedicated defender of his clients’ rights who took pride in his work. But what was really nagging at him was whether he should be working the case at all. He had never turned away a case, not as Saul Goodman, and his unofficial motto was “Nothing too raunchy, no alley too dark…” but now he was rethinking what suddenly seemed an ill-conceived policy.

He sat down behind his desk and fished Kelly Astin’s deposition out of his briefcase. She was the girlfriend, the alleged victim, and Saul had taken her deposition just before he himself had been attacked. He could hardly remember it now. What had he been thinking when she explained to him how she had been sodomized? He was probably focused on how he’d defend it. Kelly claimed that she repeatedly said, “No” and “Stop” while Sullivan molested her. Saul read through the deposition to refresh his memory, taking notes to follow up with Sullivan.

The couple fought a lot, but on the night in question Sullivan was out of control. Kelly couldn’t remember what the fight was about, something to do with dinner. Sullivan had clocked her in the face. Then he pushed her face first into the kitchen table, knocked the quiche off the table, and sodomized her. Then he continued to beat her. The case file had a photograph of her black and blue face. There was an emergency room report about broken ribs.

Saul felt his hands go clammy, his breathing quickened. He stepped away from his desk, but returned to rummage through his briefcase. He found the bottle of hydrocodone that Nacho had gotten him and he downed two pills with a bit of coffee. He sat down in one of his guest chairs and weighed his options: he could tell Sullivan that he wasn’t taking the case. Or he could ask Chuck to do it. But Chuck would ask too many questions: _why hadn’t this case been included in the initial set? wasn’t Jimmy back to work now anyway?_ Chuck was one of the few people who knew Saul had been raped, so he might understand on that count, but Saul didn’t want Chuck to know that he couldn’t handle a simple rape case. He didn’t want to admit it to himself.

No, he couldn’t involve Chuck. And he couldn’t turn Sullivan away either, no matter how much the case made his stomach churn. He had his reputation to uphold.

 

Shortly before lunchtime, Saul got a surprise visitor: Jesse Pinkman. Jesse bounded into the office and collapsed on the couch. The hydrocodone left Saul a little giddy. “To what do I owe this treasure?” Saul misspoke.

Jesse laughed, “Does that mean I’m moving up on your contact list?” Saul looked confused, “I’ve earned the title of Treasure of Sierra Madray or whatever?”

“No, Jesse, you’re still my James Dean. There’s no shame in that.”

“Wait ’til you see this, yo. Then you’ll be promoting me to Treasure.” Jesse produced a manilla file folder and handed it to Saul. Saul came around the coffee table and joined Jesse on the couch. “Oh, you should probably handle with care… bad memories, and all that,” Jesse warned. Saul looked at Jesse searchingly. Carefully prying inside, the lawyer saw that the folder contained realistically rendered drawings of the three attackers. The first drawing was of the gunman, and it was so life-like that Saul flinched. He was growing tired of his trigger happy startle response.

When he caught his breath, Saul responded, “Jesse, these are fantastic. You drew them?”

“Yep.”

“I didn’t know you could draw. These are amazing,” Saul shuffled through the other drawings. “You’re very talented,” Saul said without looking up; he was entranced by the drawing of the gunman. Jesse had nailed his slightly crooked nose, the sneer of his mouth, the black hole of a missing tooth just visible, the round head covered in blond stubble, an earring dangling from his left ear. The gunman, befittingly, clutched his gun, holding it up by his face like James Bond would. Saul saw that it was an automatic, not a revolver, but not all the details of the gun were rendered, it was fuzzy like the lost parts of a dream. _There he is, the fucker that destroyed my life_ , Saul thought, his eyes beginning to sting.

“Hey, so do you think those will be helpful?” Jesse interjected, breaking through Saul’s thoughts.

“Hell yeah! Jesse, this is best thing that has happened in two weeks.” Jesse beamed at the compliment. “Nacho can use these drawings to find these guys. He already fucked up Cobra.”

“Oh, yeah…”

“Said he wouldn’t be walking for awhile.”

“That serves him right,” Jesse remarked.

“Where did you learn to draw like this, Jesse?”

“Oh, you know, copying out of comic books and shit.”

“Jesse, this is far beyond copying from comic books! This is practically making a photograph from your memory. This is _better_ than some pictures that Nacho tried to _take on his phone_.”

“I just draw what I see in my mind.”

“That’s a talent to treasure,” Saul ruffled Jesse’s hair and Jesse shot back a wide smile.

Francesca chimed in on Saul’s ear piece telling him it was time to leave for the jailhouse.

“I’ve got to go meet with a client down at the jail… hey, do you ever go to the shooting range?”

“No, man, my gun’s not registered. You can’t take it to the range. Why? You have a gun?”

“Yeah, Nacho got me a gun, but I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with it. I need to practice.”

“I know a place,” Jesse volunteered. “You want to go there sometime?”

“That would be great.”

“We’re not cooking on Friday. Mr. White’s got chemo. You want to say Friday afternoon?”

“Perfect.”


	9. Jailhouse Blues

Down at the jailhouse, Saul awaited Tommy Sullivan in a sterile concrete and steel room. Sullivan managed to saunter into the interview room despite the leg irons; it was as if he was being inconvenienced. His red jail jumper didn’t cover up the tattoos on his forearms. One was a skull, the other the body of a dragon whose head must have terminated further up his arm. Sullivan wore a crew cut on the top and sides, but in the back had long, curly hair. He had a slight build. “Mr. Sullivan, good to see you again,” Saul said coldly.

Saul began interviewing Sullivan. He took copious notes, but he was finding little of use to mounting a credible defense. Sullivan’s steely demeanor was impenetrable. Eventually Saul steered the conversation to the rape: “Ms. Astin claims you had anal intercourse without her consent.”

“Yeah, I butt-fucked the slut,” Sullivan stated matter-of-factly. Saul had no doubt that Sullivan was guilty, but most clients didn’t declare their guilt with such Jack Nicholson-like (“and I’d do it again”) pride. Saul stared at Sullivan, a sneer on the lawyer’s face that he couldn’t control. He thought about the gun that Nacho had given him; fortunately it was safely at home.

“She enjoyed it. You can’t tell me she didn’t. Are you with me on this, Goodman?” Sullivan must have been picking up on Saul’s derision.

“Of course,” Saul forced himself to say. “But Mr. Sullivan, a couple of things: don’t use that language. Innocent people use language of innocence, not guilt.”

“Sure I’m guilty, but you’re gonna get me off,” Sullivan spouted.

“I’ll do my best, but you need to listen to me and be careful with your language. Secondly, you need to show some contrition.”

“What the fuck is that?” Sullivan smiled disparagingly. 

“Remorse… Now, I know you didn’t do anything…”

“Aren’t you listening? I did it…”

“I hear you, you little prick. Now you need to listen to me unless you want to get shipped away to the fudge-packing plant on a 15 to 25 ride…” Saul ranted. “You want to be remorseful about any misunderstanding that may exist between you and your girlfriend. Contrition means you don’t call her a ‘slut’. You don’t boastfully talk about ‘butt-fucking’ her.”

“That’s just with you, I’m talking that way,” Sullivan explained.

“Well don’t. Start talking to me like you’ll talk in court. Consider it practice.”

Saul continued the interview until he’d answered all of his questions from the deposition. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d shape a defense for Sullivan. In fact, he realized, he wasn’t sure he wanted to win the case at all. Tommy Sullivan was a punk-ass bitch who deserved to be behind bars. Saul was shocked by his own thinking; he’d never let morality shade his thinking before. What was wrong with him?

Jury selection—he told himself. It would all come down to jury selection. If Saul just let the process fall to chance…

 

When Saul finished with Sullivan, he checked in with Francesca. She had good news—a potential client, a hacker who pulled some kind of fraudulent computer scheme. Saul always admired a well-executed scam and hoped this guy was the real deal and not just some poser. He felt grateful for the new business. Things had slowed down while he was in the hospital and unable to troll for new clients.

Saul’s nerves were frayed from the meeting with Sullivan. He just didn’t lose his composure with a client, no matter how heinous the facts of the case, no matter how disrespectful the attitude. Saul reflected with regret that he’d lost more than his composure… but he didn’t know how to rekindle his respect for the legal process. He took a hydrocodone, but the pill just seemed to make him tired.

Actually he was so sleepy that he considered trying to postpone the client’s meeting… but they might go with a different lawyer. Instead, he would rely on a dose of caffeine via the decrepit coffee vending machine. He yearned for a Starbucks, but he knew he shouldn’t be driving.

 

Herman DuCamp was a computer hacker who liked to convert his skill into small time earnings. In his latest scam, he loaded up a message to appear on the victim’s screen and claim the computer had a virus. In fact, the computer had no virus, other than the intrusive message. Next the user was instructed to ‘click here’ for ‘Immediate Virus Removal!’ And for $14.95 Herman would run a simple routine that removed the virus message from the computer and the gullible user would believe the virus had been eradicated.

Herman was an African American man in his 50s. He was thin and wiry with a pencil thin mustache and a scraggly little beard growing just on his chin. He was clearly unaccustomed to the arrest process. He fidgeted in his chair and fussed with the handcuffs. “Those will chafe the more you mess with them,” Saul volunteered, pointing his pen at the handcuffs. He didn’t tell DuCamp how he knew. DuCamp smiled meekly and tried to settle down. “Let me read through your arrest report and then we’ll get down to brass tacks,” Saul informed DuCamp. “Ye olde computer virus scam,” Saul laughed. “That’s a good one. Con artists have been using a variation of this for centuries, Herman. Give somebody a problem and then come through with the world’s only solution. Ha, ha. OK, listen, Herman, the next step here is a bail hearing. We want to try to reduce your bail, or get no bail, but we need some mitigating factors: family, a job, etc. We need to prove you’re gonna stick around and face the music.”

“Well, there’s my daughter, Tiffany. She got mental challenges.”  
“Like how, she’s retarded?” Saul clarified.

“Yeah, yeah, I think we say mental challenges these days. She got a low IQ.”

“That’s good,” Saul replied, thinking of the bail hearing. Then, realizing how crass it sounded, he followed up with: “Who’s taking care of her now?” Saul slowed down for a moment and genuinely considered the man in front of him. He didn’t normally do that at these ‘client meetings’. His clients were a paycheck and a problem to be solved, but never a person. Treating them like a person was Jimmy McGill-law: slow and low-paying and prone to getting one’s feelings hurt. Better not to care.

“My mother. But she not well herself, Mr. Goodman. She got the sugars.” Saul looked confused. “Deeahbetus,” Herman clarified.

“Call me Saul. Do you help your mother, too?”

“Yeah, when I can.”

“Do you have a job?”

“Yessir. Fixin’ computers,” Herman laughed and Saul joined in.

“Do you think Tiffany and/or your mother could come to the bail hearing?”

“Well, I usually drives them around, but I think I can get them down here.”

“What about your employer? Would he show up the bail hearing for you?”

“He probably would, yessir.” 

 

That night, Saul went to bed early and he quickly fell into a deep sleep, void of nightmares or any dreams at all. In the middle of the night, something—a sound—awoke him. At first Saul assumed it was a dream, but as he lay staring at his clock, which read 1:38am, he heard the sound again. It was a knocking at the front door. Saul leapt out of bed, terrified. His heart was pounding so hard it sounded as loud as the door knocking. He could _hear_ the blood coursing through his carotid artery. He reached into the nightstand and smoothly took out the pistol despite his trembling hands. He flicked off the safety and clutched the gun in both hands holding it up against his chest. Saul carefully approached the bedroom door and opened it with his left hand. Awkwardly he pressed the gun into the darkness on the other side of the door, and as he opened the door wider, he swung the gun in a searching arch.

The hallway was dark, with a square of streetlight shining through from the guest room and illuminating the hall floor. Saul took a moment to calm his breath before proceeding down the hallway. Besides the guest room, all the doors along the hallway were closed. When Saul approached the guest room, he again swept the gun across the doorway.

He crossed the living room, avoiding the light that was slating in from the streetlights. The front door had three small panels across the top and sidelights with decorative glass. Saul looked out through one of the top panels, but could see no one on the porch. There were no unusual cars on the street. Next he got down on his hands and knees and peered through the sidelight. Again nothing.

Saul inspected the house. He looked through every window and checked the security of every lock. When he was satisfied that the knocker was gone, Saul switched the safety on the gun, put it in his waistband and chased a hydrocodone with some Dewar’s.

When his alarm went off at 7:30am, Saul couldn’t imagine getting up. He had originally planned to go to the office before his 11:00am bail hearing, but in his groggy state he couldn’t see the point of doing that. He texted Francesca to let her know he’d be going straight to court and he re-set his alarm for 10:00am.   
Saul cursed himself when the alarm went off again—he really needed a bit more than an hour to get ready for work and to get down to the courthouse, especially with the parking situation there. Now he was in a rush.

He walked into the courtroom at 11:05, and was relieved to see that the presiding was Judge Papadoumian. She did not seem put off by his late arrival and even made a gesture suggesting that she liked his beard. He took his position at the table next to Herman DuCamp and grabbed a file out of his briefcase. The charges were read and the bail discussion began. The judge had initially set the bail at $50,000. Saul tried to argue that DuCamp was not a flight risk and that the bail should be reduced. “Mr. DuCamp has a mentally challenged child and a mother who is sick with diabetes. He holds a job. His family and employer are here to support him,” Saul was saying mechanically when a feeling of dread descended upon him. In his rush into court he hadn’t met any of these individuals and looking around behind him now, he found the nearby seats vacant. Saul stole a look at DuCamp, who was staring at the judge with a confused expression.

“Objection, Your Honor!” the prosecutor was saying.

“Your Honor, approach?” Saul countered. Judge Papadoumian invited both lawyers up to the bench.

“What is going on, Mr. Goodman?” the judge asked, perturbed.

“It was an honest mistake, Your Honor, I misspoke about the presence of Mr. DuCamp’s supporters. I regret the mistake. It won’t happen again,” Saul looked down deferentially. 

“And the job, Your Honor? DuCamp doesn’t have a job,” the prosecutor claimed.

Saul glanced back at DuCamp in disbelief.

“Mr. DuCamp,” the judge said looking past the attorneys, “are you presently employed?”

“No, ma’am,” DuCamp replied.

“Bail is set at $50,000,” the judge declared loudly, pounding her gavel. “Mr. Goodman, I’ll see you in chambers.”

 

Saul looked down at the floor as he walked from the hearing room to Judge Papadoumian’s office. He’d made a colossal error and he wasn’t accustomed to fucking up like that, especially on something so basic; it was no surprise that he’d been called to principal’s office. At least it was Judge Papadoumian. She, out of all judges, seemed to be a Saul Goodman fan. 

“What the hell happened out there, Saul?” Judge Papadoumian asked.

“I’m sorry, Judge, I took my client at his word.”

“That’s always risky business. Have a seat.” The judge was standing behind her desk, removing her robe to reveal a red suit. She indicated for Saul to sit on an upholstered chair across the desk from her. The office stood in stark contrast to the brown desert hues of the rest of the court building. It was decorated in white paneling and grecian style columns. The flags of New Mexico and the United States flanked the judge. 

“Saul, I think you should know there are rumors around the courthouse…”

Saul felt a squeezing, burning pressure in his chest. He coughed. “Rumors?” he inquired, his voice sounding weak.

“It’s well known that you were attacked—but some of the rumors have it as a sexual assault.”

Saul’s face turned red and his breath hitched.

“It’s not a rumor, then?” The judge asked. Saul nodded his head. The judge came around the desk to sit in the chair next to him. “I’m so sorry, Saul. I was hoping the rumor mill had it wrong.”

He felt like he’d been run over by a car and left laid out on the concrete. He stared straight ahead, not wanting to look at the judge for fear of losing his composure.

“How are you holding up?”

“Well, you know what they say; one day at a time. Ha, ha.” Desperate to bring levity to the situation, Saul forced a laugh. “This is my first week back in court and I guess you’re going to say I came back too early. Maybe I did. I thought I was ready.”

“Maybe you’re all right physically…” the judge was saying. He probably wasn’t ready physically what with the visceral physical responses he was getting to anything emotional. “But mentally…” the judge continued, “you don’t seem in the game. And that’s understandable after what you’ve been through… I think you need some help. Are you seeing someone?”

“What? Like a counselor? No… With all due respect, Judge, I think what I need is to get back to work.”

“Not if today’s performance was indicative. Listen, I really think you need to get some kind of help. These kinds of wounds don’t heal themselves.”

“I thought time heals all wounds.”

“I hope so, Saul, but I think we need to speed up the process.”

“Look, I appreciate your concern…”

“Saul, don’t make me order this.”

“What?”

“Listen, I could charge you with Contempt for that display of incompetence, or you could get yourself some help and get to counseling.”

He crossed his arms, subtly hugging his ribs. “You can’t order me into counseling.”

“No, but I _can_ hold you in Contempt, so what’s it going to be?”

That evening, Saul and Nacho went out for dinner. Though it was only Tuesday, it felt to Saul as if he worked an entire week, and he was already longing for the weekend. Nacho was more quiet than usual and Saul was preoccupied; he wasn’t stepping into his habitual mode of leading the conversation. Saul was debating whether to tell Nacho about the knocking in the middle of the night. He finally decided to do so.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Nacho sounded irritated. Saul winced at Ignacio's anger.

“I was going to, Ignacio. In the heat of the moment, I actually thought about texting you. But you’re half an hour a way, so I knew you couldn’t… and I had my gun… that helped me to feel safe.”

“Do you even know how to shoot that thing yet?”

“I’m going for target practice on Friday.”

“Good. Listen, Saul. You probably don’t want to hear this. Those fucks are getting bolder. Next step: they are breaking in. You’ve got to be prepared for that possibility.” A shiver passed down Saul’s spine. He knew Ignacio was right, but why did he have to be so blunt about it? 

“What should I do?”

“I’ll stay with you when I can, but this fucking turf battle has me most nights. I mean, it was hard for me to get away tonight. If the muchacos could see me now, they’d kick my ass. You should consider other options…”

“Like what?”

“Like a hotel.” Ignacio suggested. Saul was ambivalent about the idea. He loathed the thought of being driven out of his own home. It felt completely out of control—yet he could definitely see the wisdom and the mere thought of it brought a warm feeling of safety.

“What about your place?” Saul felt obligated to ask, though, again, he didn’t really like the idea.

“You know that wouldn’t work…” Ignacio replied. Saul knew that Ignacio’s house served as a sort of Grand Central Station for his gang. People, drugs and money were moving through there all the time. It was why Saul couldn’t stay there and also why Ignacio was unable to get away much of the time.

“I’ll think about the hotel…” Saul finally replied. He then went on to tell Ignacio about his crappy two days at work. He told him about the bail hearing and Judge P’s ultimatum.

“I think counseling will be good for you,” Ignacio responded.

Saul was dumbfounded, “What?! Who are you? Tony Soprano? You think I _should_ see a shrink?! What if we talk about you?”

Ignacio lowered his voice and looked straight into Saul’s eyes. “I know you’ll be discreet. And maybe she can help you, you know, get over your hesitation, or inhibitions, or whatever.”

“This has been hard on you, Ignacio. I’m sorry about that.”

Ignacio took Saul’s hand, “No need to apologize, mi amor. You just focus on getting better.”

The waiter came with some water refills and saw the two men holding hands. He stared for a beat. Saul withdrew his hand while Ignacio gave the waiter a steely eyed glare.

Saul reached for his briefcase and took out a manilla envelope. “Check these out… drawings of… well, you know,” Saul said, passing the envelope to Ignacio.  
Ignacio took the drawings out of the envelope. “These are amazing. Where’d you get these?”

“Jesse.”

“Oh, of course, Wonderboy.”

“Boy Wonder,” Saul corrected Ignacio.

“OK. Boy Wonder. What else does he do? Leap small buildings in a single bound?”

“It’s ‘tall’ buildings. Just check out the drawings, Ignacio.”

In fact, Ignacio couldn’t take his eyes off the drawings. “I know this guy, Saul,” Ignacio said, referring to the gunman. “He’s called The Ice Man. And this guy looks familiar… I think he’s called Slade or Slayer or something like that” he said about the third man. “And this one… that’s Cobra, he shouldn’t be messing with you now.”

“So the drawings will help?”

“Are you kidding? These are like photographs! These fuckers are so dead… you don’t need to be worrying about it anymore, Saul.”

“As long as you get there first, mi amor,” Saul pointed out.

“Get that hotel tonight, buddy.”


	10. Experimenting

On Friday, Saul was able to clear his calendar in order to do some target shooting with Jesse. Saul was looking forward to the end of a tiring, unsatisfying week. Judge P was probably right about him not being mentally in the game yet, but with various court appearances, and new clients to cultivate, Saul didn’t feel like his return was optional.

His first appointment with the therapist was set up for the next day. But he would worry about all that later; for now we was looking forward to unloading some lead into innocent beer bottles and watching them die a painful death.

Saul picked Jesse up at his house.

“Damn, Jesse, are you still living with your parents?” Saul asked incredulously as Jesse got in the car.

“No, bitch. This place belonged to my Aunt Ginny.”

“She’s the one that died of cancer? I’m sorry, Jesse. It’s a beautiful house. I’d like to see it some time.”

“Oh, I bet you would, you probably want to ‘experiment’ in there.”

“Damn straight I would. In the living room, and the dining room, and the kitchen…”

“And the bedroom?”

“Should I turn the car around?” Saul asked eagerly.

“I’m fixing some things up. So no experimenting in my house right now. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

“OK, well my house is open for experiments any time.”

 

Jesse gave directions, and they headed off into the desert on unmarked roads. As they neared their destination, Saul saw a bunch of abandoned old cars huddled around in a group. He slammed on the brakes.

“What’s wrong, yo?!!” Jesse yelled.

Saul thought about reaching for his gun in the backseat.

“I had a dream about this place,” Saul explained. “The attackers were here.”

“OK, I get that—that’s scary. But it was just a _dream_! Nobody’s here but us.”

“But it was _this_ very place, Jesse. I’ve never been _here_ before.” Saul peered out the window at the cars as if they were going to suddenly roar to life and attack. Saul started inching the Caddy forward. “There was an old yellow Lincoln Continental right over there, like one my uncle used to have.” As the Caddy approached the car graveyard, a yellow car came into view. It was a huge old Continental.

“OK, that’s a whole lot of creepy. But remember, we got guns, yo. We’re safe.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Saul said, unconvinced. “Where should I park then?”

“Stay the hell away from the Lincoln, I have a feeling you’ll wanna fill that bitch full of holes.”

“Hell yeah. I want to ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ that son of a bitch.”

 

Jesse had brought along some beer bottles and he lined these up on the hood of a Crown Victoria. Saul lined up the first shot, taking time to get his stance right. When he was ready, he squeezed the trigger, but had forgotten the safety. Jesse lost himself in laughter. Miffed, Saul turned off the safety, quickly reset himself, and, hardly taking aim, he let his bullet fly. One of the beer bottles shattered—not the one that Saul was aiming at—but he kept that to himself.

“Damn!” Jesse exclaimed, “I thought you said this was the first time you fired that thing!” Jesse held up his hand for a fist bump.

“That was my first shot. Ever.” Saul slapped Jesse’s closed fist triumphantly.

“Your pops didn’t take you shooting when you were a kid?”

“No. What about yours?”

“No, man, I learned everything I know about shooting from video games.” Jesse had lined up a shot, one armed style, in contrast to the two-handed approach that Nacho had taught Saul. Jesse pulled off four shots in rapid succession, with three hitting the bottles.

“That was brilliant, Jesse! I _am_ safe with you.”

Jesse was smiling broadly. “What do you mean? You can take care of yourself. Go on, take another shot.”

Saul deliberately got himself lined up for the next shot, squeezed the trigger, and missed all the bottles. Jesse encouraged him to try a few more times, but they were all misses. “Why don’t you try one-arm style?”

“I think my ribs are still too sore for that.”

“Let’s just try it.” Jesse stood behind Saul guiding his shoulders and arm to the proper stance. Saul shot and obliterated a bottle. Saul tried another shot and was again successful. “So, how are your ribs?” Jesse asked.

“They hurt; the recoil really hurts.” Saul sat down on a stack of tires and squinted up at Jesse, trying to catch his breath.

“Ok, then you’ll do most of your shooting using two hands, but you’ll know you have an option…. Oh, check out what I brought, yo!” Jesse ran back toward the Caddy. When he returned, he had copies of the drawings of the attackers and a roll of duct tape. He taped the images on to the Crown Victoria, in the window, on the side mirror, the tires, and the gas tank. “Why don’t you take out the mirror?”

The gunman’s face glared back at Saul from the side of the car. He remembered them grabbing his arm and slamming him into the mirror. He could still feel it now. Saul lined up a shot and he missed on his first try, but quickly got lined up and his second try found home.

“Holy shit, yo! You got him. Right between the eyes!”

Saul put the safety on his gun and stuffed the pistol into his waistband. “I showed Nacho your drawings, Jesse. He said they were like photographs… he recognized them.”

“That’s great. I’m glad I could help.”

“ _Help_ , Jesse? Your drawings might _save_ my life. They’ve been harassing me, Jesse. Calling me at the house. The other night, they knocked on the door. I’ve been staying at a hotel since then.”

“Jesus, Saul.”

“Let me see your hand.” Saul took the pistol out of Jesse’s hand, engaged the safety and set down the gun. Saul looked at the palm of Jesse’s hand and examined the long fingers. “So talented… you’re a crack shot and an artist at the same time.” Saul interlaced his own fingers between Jesse’s.

Jesse embraced Saul’s hand and bringing it to his face, kissed Saul on the back of the hand. Saul leaned in and gently kissed Jesse on the lips. Jesse returned the kiss, but more forcefully, nibbling at Saul’s lips. “Ow,” Saul said in mock pain, forcing his tongue past Jesse’s teeth and exploring hungrily inside Jesse’s mouth. Saul grasped Jesse’s waist and pulled the younger man in to himself. Jesse took off his own shirt and then reached around for Saul’s shirt. Gingerly he pulled the shirt over Saul’s head. Saul groaned slightly—Jesse wasn’t sure if it was the excitement or his ribs, or maybe some combination. Saul pressed harder into Jesse now. He outlined the younger man’s nipples with his tongue and then lightly bit one. Jesse squirmed and let out a low moan, so Saul increased the intensity of the bite.

“Shall we ‘experiment’ in the Caddy?” Jesse asked pulling away. Saul embraced his hand, interlacing the fingers again.

“It will be the car’s maiden voyage,” Saul answered.

“Mine too; let’s do this.” Jesse lead the way to the backseat of the Cadillac. Jesse held the door open for Saul, but Saul gestured for Jesse to go in first.

“Face down,” Saul told him. Once Jesse was lying down in the back seat, Saul sat straddling him. He removed his pistol, checked the safety, and placed it on the floor of the Caddy. He reached around Jesse’s waistband and started fumbling with the belt buckle. As he did so, intrusive images of the night of the attack assaulted him. His hands froze on the belt.

“It’s okay, Saul,” Jesse said told him softly. “I’ll get the belt buckle.” Jesse brought his hands up to his waistband and there met Saul’s hands. Jesse repositioned Saul’s hands over his own stomach, like Jesse was riding a motorcycle and Saul was hanging on from behind. Jesse pulled down his pants and underwear.

“Oh, one moment; forgot something,” Saul exited the back seat and opened the trunk. He came back with some lube. Saul massaged Jesse’s back to reset the mood. Then, once his own heart had stopped racing, Saul lubricated his hand and began to finger Jesse in the anus. Jesse made moaning sounds, somewhere between pain and pleasure. Saul kept probing deeper and then added his middle finger.

“Fuck me. Please.” Jesse asked. Saul paused, looking down at his own belt buckle. He took a deep breath and slowly undid the belt buckle. Then, feeling victorious, he pulled down his boxers and pants. He returned to fingering Jesse. 

“Are you ready, Jesse. This will hurt at first.”

“Bring it on, bitch.”

Saul lubed his cock and slowly, rhythmically he penetrated Jesse. With each thrust Jesse emitted a groan. The thrusts were gentle at first, but as Saul detected Jesse’s groans turning to ecstasy, he increased the pressure and the speed, emphasizing hitting Jesse in the pleasure spot.

Saul wanted to prolong the process, but found he had little control over his own body. He lost his load and then utterly exhausted, he fell on to Jesse, still shuddering from the release.

Jesse shifted Saul’s weight carefully, until they were lying side by side, legs tangled together. Saul found Jesse’s member, hard and swollen, and began pumping it. Jesse took ahold of Saul’s hand. “Let’s take it slow. I don’t need a turn.” 

Saul slowed down his pumping. “Are you sure?” He asked. “I want the experiment to be a success.”

“Oh, it was!” Jesse laughed. He kissed Saul on the mouth and embraced his upper body.

*************

Judge P had given Saul a list of four possible counselors to choose from. He had Googled each and had chosen Caroline Diversey; she seemed least offensive. She listed a boatload of modalities with talk therapy at the top. Saul figured he could bullshit his way through a few sessions with a talker. Some of the other techniques sounded like they had the potential to be invasive and painful: Exposure Therapy, Hypnosis, Cognitive Behavior Therapy. Others were more esoteric: Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing and Equine Therapy. Saul wasn’t sure what eyes and horses had to with what happened to him.

“Call me Caroline. May I call you Saul?”

“Please.” Saul replied, shaking her hand.

They each took a seat in a cluster of chairs off to one side of the room.

“Saul, you expressed interest in a number of topics on the intake form. Is there a topic in particular you’d like to focus on?”

Saul hesitated. He didn’t feel like telling her the truth: that he wanted to talk about the rape but it scared him too much. He thought he could pick something much more innocuous, burn through a couple of sessions, declare it’s not working… Judge P couldn’t _make_ him talk about the rape.

“What would make these sessions most meaningful to you? What prompted you to contact me?”

Damn, she could read his mind.

“Judge Papadoumian suggested I see you.”

“It was court ordered?”

“More of a negotiation… I’m a lawyer.”

“The judge does tend to step over her boundaries.” Caroline said laughing quietly. Saul joined her.

“So there must be something very specific at issue… though we can talk about anything you want.” 

Saul puffed out his upper lip, debating. “I was raped,” Saul stated matter-of-factly. “I was with a client and we were attacked by three men. I ended up in the hospital with a punctured lung.” There. It was over.

Caroline was breathing steadily, transfixed by Saul’s story. “I’m so sorry that happened to you… When was that?” Her voice was strong but empathetic, like she’d heard this before. 

“Uh… three, four weeks ago.”

“So it’s still very fresh.”

“I still get nightmares… and flashbacks.”

“How often?”

“Almost every night.”

“That’s psyche’s way of trying to make sense of what happened. What happens in these dreams, Saul? Do you want to tell me?”

He told her about the dreams, using the most recent as an example. He told her about all the dream elements and about how Chuck or Walt often showed up with the attackers. He told her about Jesse’s role in the dreams.

“Who is Jesse?” Caroline probed.

“Oh, He’s my client…” Saul perked up, “the one who was there the night I was attacked.”

“Why do you think he’s the one who saves you?”

“I don’t know… he couldn’t save me that night. In fact they attacked us _because_ of him in a way. Jesse is a drug dealer and these were rivals.”

“Saul, I’m just trying to understand what happened. If I’m probing too much, just let me know. I’ll stop. If Jesse was their rival, why did they attack you?”

Saul could hear their voices, hear their taunts and their debate about whether or not he was Heisenberg. He closed his eyes to focus on shutting out the voices. He shook his head.

“Saul, tell me what’s going on. Is this a flashback?”

“Yeah… they are arguing about who I am.”

“Who do they think you are?”

“Jesse’s partner… uh, Dr. Strangelove… he’s a client too. He is a real bad ass. A dangerous man.”

“And these rival drug dealers, they thought you were Dr. Strangelove?”

“Yeah,” Saul said quietly, “at first. In the end, I think they believed I was who I said: just the lawyer.”

“And they attacked you anyway? Why do you think they did that?”

There was a long pause before Saul finally answered, “They said I looked ‘soft.’” Saul had forgotten that comment and was surprised to hear himself say it now. “And to send a message to Dr. Strangelove. To back off their territory…” Saul added.

Caroline zeroed in on the ‘soft’ comment: “They picked you because you were more vulnerable than Jesse?”

Saul had closed his eyes, wishing for Caroline to go away, but he nodded his head. He could feel tears forming under his closed lids, his heart had lodged in his throat and he couldn’t breath.

“Listen to me, Saul. There’s no shame in any of this. There were three of them.”

“And they had a gun.”

“Of course you were vulnerable. That’s okay. We are all vulnerable at times. You were outnumbered and outgunned.” 

A tear escaped, rolling down Saul’s cheek. “It was humiliating,” he said.

“Good, Saul. When you name something you take away its power over you. Can you feel a weight being lifted?”

He could, just a little. He nodded reluctantly.

“We’re going to have to wrap up in a few minutes. Where do you want to take this work? Do you want to continue?”  
Saul nodded. He had promised Judge P three sessions, but he found himself genuinely wanting to talk to Caroline again.

“There are a few directions we could go. We can keep talking or we could try a different modality, like Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing—it’s radical but powerful. It’s been very successful in the treatment of rape cases. You don’t have to decide now.”


	11. Caught

Sunday morning Saul woke up refreshed. After the gun range practice, Saul had returned home from the hotel. For the first time since returning from the hospital, he hadn’t had nightmares to disturb his sleep. His body involuntarily moved into a deep stretch—Saul hesitated for a moment, but then went with the stretch. His ribs were still sore, but the stretch felt good, a good sore. He was well-rested; he was beginning to feel like himself again.

Saul’s Sunday routine was to enjoy French Toast while reading the paper. He mixed up his special French Toast batter featuring a dash of Drambuie, got the toast frying and, still in the t-shirt and sweats he had slept, he went outside to retrieve the paper. Upon returning Saul noticed that he’d received a text from Jesse:

_Nacho knows._

_Need help. Come to my house._

Saul’s posture sunk, his pulse quickened. He struggled with the phone, trying to type a fast reply.

_On my way._

Saul cut the heat on the stove, grabbed his pistol from the nightstand and ran out the door. Within less than ten minutes he had cleared the distance to Jesse’s house. Nacho’s van was parked askew in the driveway. The rush of adrenalin made Saul’s heart race.

He hadn’t had time to put on shoes, so he walked gingerly over the hot concrete of the driveway. Saul’s heart dropped when he got near Nacho’s van. He thought he could make out traces of blood on the driveway. The blood made a distinct pattern of a thin line, followed by a few drops before the line advanced again. Saul wiped the sweat away from his brow and gripped the gun more tightly. 

Saul opened the unlocked front door. He was hit by the incongruous smells of cigarettes and breakfast: a burrito, he figured, a burned burrito. Saul surveyed the room while moving the gun in a broad arc. Jesse let out a booming yell, “Saul!!” Saul had just enough time to duck away from a blow that had been aimed for the back of his head, but not enough time to avoid Nacho’s consolation: a back handed pistol whip to Saul’s jaw with a thwack that sent him crumpling to the floor. A sickening pop came from his knee as it bunched under him awkwardly. Despite the onslaught, Saul maintained his hold on the gun. Wincing, he pointed up at Nacho who was standing behind the door. Nacho had a gun on Jesse and the fear in the kid’s eyes stabbed at Saul like a knife. He attempted to scoot away along the floor to put some distance between him and Nacho. The knee wasn’t cooperating.

From his vantage point on the floor, Saul was desperately searching Jesse, looking for the source of the blood. Jesse had bruises on his face and his eye was closing up from what must have been a wicked punch. Then he saw that Jesse was clutching at his side. Jesse had a black sweat shirt on, but Saul could see a wet patch on Jesse’s left side. With his right hand, Nacho aimed at Saul, with his left he had Jesse’s arm twisted up behind his back.

“Ignacio, talk to me. Que pasa?”

“Que pasa, Saul? You’re always wanting to talk, aren’t you? It’s time for action now.”

“Come on, Ignacio, tell me what’s going on!” Saul insisted.

“You went behind my back with this little fuck!?! You didn’t want to have sex with me, and I thought it was because you’d been raped, but it was because you were with him! I fucked up that _ese_ for you! I showed you how to protect yourself! And this is how you repay me? Now _I_ get my payback, Saul.” As Nacho spoke spittle spewed from his mouth.

Saul was trying to get leverage against the door to push himself up to his feet. His chest was heaving. The gun was becoming slippery in his sweaty hand. “It wasn’t like that, Ignacio. This wasn’t a planned out thing. It just happened.” 

“What was like then? You tell me.”

Saul was silent for a beat. He wasn’t entirely clear on why he had pursued Jesse and cheated on Nacho. It just felt so right.

“Sex with you is always so violent, and you’re so dominating in general. After the ra… I was… am… scared of everything: you, sex. Jesse was the only one who understood…”

“Probably because you talked to him. You _let_ him understand. Me? You just used me. Why couldn’t you talk to _me_ , Saul?”

“Look, Ignacio, you’re mad at me. Jesse has nothing to do with this. I’m the one who betrayed you.” Nacho was seething, but nodded at Saul’s logic. “So let him go. If you let Jesse go, I’ll give you my gun.”

“No!!!” Jesse yelled.

Saul gave Jesse an imploring look. “Otherwise we’re all stuck here in a standoff… and Jesse needs medical attention. Let Jesse get to a doctor. He won’t say anything, will you, Jesse?”

“Saul, this is crazy. Don’t do this!” Jesse hissed.

“Come on, Ignacio, just you and me.”

Nacho shifted his gun hand so that it was pointed at Jesse. “Give me the gun, Saul.” Nacho released his grip on Jesse’s arm and reached out for Saul’s gun. Nacho gave Jesse a hard push, “If you call the police, he gets in the head! Get out of here, _flaco_.”

Jesse seemed to hesitate. “Go on, Jesse. Get medical help. Go!” Saul insisted.

Jesse stepped around Saul and ran out of the house.

“He left pretty fast.” Nacho observed. “Guess he wants to save his own ass. You know, I would have hung in there with you, Saul, you fucker!” With that Nacho kicked Saul’s injured knee. Saul cried out.

“Get up!” Nacho demanded. “Get up and go to the couch.”

Grabbing the door knob, Saul pulled himself up. Shaky on the one knee, he struggled for balance. He took several uneasy steps toward the couch and then stopped by the coffee table, placing all his weight on his good leg. “No. I’m not going to the couch.”

Saul’s rebellion infuriated Nacho who stepped forward and pistol whipped him. Again, he collapsed to his knees and cried out. Writhing on the floor, Saul looked for a comfortable way to position his knee. “We’re not having sex, Ignacio. It’s over,” Saul stated resolutely, but weakly.

Nacho bent down in front of Saul, dangling his gun in his right hand. Saul’s gun was in Nacho’s waistband. Saul wondered fleetingly where Jesse’s gun was, then he hoped that the kid was okay, that he actually went for medical treatment.

“You know, Saul, you can do a lot of damage without even firing your gun. That is, if you _have_ a gun.” Nacho took the gun and cracked it across Saul’s knee. “Didn’t I teach to never give your gun up?”

Nacho set one gun beside him at his feet. He pushed Saul’s chest causing him to fall onto his back. Then, taking Saul’s gun from his waistband, Nacho used the gun to prod along Saul’s body. Saul’s cock was swollen and Nacho ran the gun along its length. Saul trembled.

“You always were a kinky fuck. I thought you said didn’t want to have sex with me. Your cock is telling me otherwise,” Nacho sneered.

“Fuck off.”

With his free hand Nacho punched Saul as hard as could in the stomach. Saul let out a grunt and then had to fight for air. He was coughing, trying to catch his breath.

“Untie your pants, Saul,” Nacho said, poking at the sweats with his gun.

“No,” Saul protested raising both of his hands to shoulder level.

“You don’t think I’ll use this?” Nacho asked angrily, waving the gun.

“I don’t think you will. Either a) you want me because you love me, in which case you’ll stop all this madness or b) you want me because you’ve been able to control and dominate me and that’s what turns you on. Now if it’s A, and I pray to God that it is, let me get up. You’re hurting me. We don’t have a safe word, but _‘safe word’_. If it’s B, I think you’re going to try to rape me and I say ‘try’ because I will fight you every step. In the end, you will have beaten the crap out of me, and you can rape the rag doll that remains if that’s your kink.”

“It was A at some point, Saul. I don’t know what happened to what we had…” Nacho sat back on his haunches. “I won’t shoot you,” and with that Nacho slid the second pistol away. “But _I am_ going to _have_ you,” Nacho lifted up Saul’s shirt and located the bruising on his chest and midsection. 

“No, no, no!” Saul cried.

Nacho gave Saul two hard blows to the bruised area. While Nacho backed away, Saul curled in on himself. He clutched his ribs, groaning. The familiar breathlessness overwhelmed him as he was seized by the realization that he had already lost the fight. He began to cough and the taste of copper filled his mouth.

“You’re going to fight me, Saul? I don’t think so. You’re just a punk ass wuss.” Nacho slapped him tauntingly in the face. “Come on, Saul, fight me.” Nacho was standing over him. Saul was still in the fetal position, the blood dripping out of his mouth onto the floor. Nacho straddled Saul and forced him into a face down position. When Saul put up minor resistance Nacho wrenched Saul’s injured leg. Saul’s knee and chest felt like they were on fire. He inhaled deeply, but choked on the blood. Nacho grabbed a handful of hair and jerked Saul’s head back. “You remember those kids in the desert? Me and Tuco broke their legs? That’s the same I’m gonna do to you if you struggle,” Nacho whispered in Saul’s ear. Saul swallowed hard.

Nacho reached underneath Saul and located the drawstrings of his sweat pants. He untied the drawstring and gave one end a tug, completely removing it from the sweat pants. Nacho began to loop the string around Saul’s wrists. “No!’ Saul yelled, thrashing about with his hands. Nacho punched him in the kidney and Saul became still. The string wasn’t very substantial, but Nacho made intricate work of tying up Saul. It would do the job for the moment.

The doorbell rang and Nacho froze. At the same time, Jesse entered the living room from the kitchen wielding a baseball bat. The front door opened and in walked Walter White, gun in hand. Nacho raised his hands up above his head and remained where he knelt, straddling Saul.

“Nacho Varga, what are you doing fucking with my empire?!” Walt demanded. Meanwhile, Jesse was edging closer to Nacho and Saul.

Nacho smiled. “You call this an empire?” Nacho nodded towards Saul and Jesse.

“Don’t piss me off, Nacho. You’re outmanned three to one.”

“I wouldn’t count _ese_ here.” Nacho said, nudging Saul’s injured leg, eliciting a moan. With that, Jesse swung his bat at Nacho, catching him in the upper arm. Nacho howled in pain. Jesse swung again, this time striking a glancing blow to Nacho’s head. Nacho was stunned but maintained his position over Saul. Walt came over and placed the gun to Nacho’s temple.

“You’re going to get the fuck out of here. We know where you live. If you ever mess with one of my people again, I’ll spread your brains all over ‘the War Zone’. And lest you think I’m some mild mannered citizen, let me introduce myself. They call me Heisenberg.” Nacho had been staring defiantly at Jesse until the final statement made him avert his eyes. “Jesse get him to his feet.” Jesse did as instructed and walked Nacho to the door.

“Now get the fuck out of here, _bitch_!” Jesse said, pushing Nacho out the door.

With his hands tied behind his back and his knee disabled, Saul was immobilized. Jesse helped him up to the couch and began working to untangle the wrist restraints. “Let me get a knife. And some pants for you,” Jesse said eyeing Saul’s sweat pants. Without the drawstring, the sweats had fallen down around Saul’s ankles.

When Jesse returned, Walt asked “Who needs to go to the hospital?” Each man answered ‘he does’ to Walt’s question. But each shook his head no at the others’ suggestion.

“Jesse, you’re shot,” Saul argued, trying to suppress a cough.

“No, it’s a superficial stab wound. It’s not that bad. _You’re_ coughing up blood, yo,” Jesse countered. 

“OK. You’re both getting medical attention,” Walt stated definitively. “Saul, do you think the vet can take care of Jesse?” Saul nodded. “Saul, I think you need to go to the hospital…”

“That’s not necessary,” Saul protested.

“I think it is. Necessary,” Jesse chimed in.

“How ‘bout I go to the hospital if the vet says I need to. I don’t want to draw anymore police attention,” Saul offered.

 

Walt pulled the car out of the driveway and said “Saul, Jesse, help me understand what just went on here.” Walt looked at Saul who was pekid and appeared as if he might pass out. He was resting his elbow on the door frame and holding his head with his hand.

Jesse waited a beat and when it was clear that Saul wasn’t going to respond, Jesse said “it was domestic violence, Mr. White.”

“That seems clear enough, but what did it have to do with you, Jesse?”

“Nacho was jealous… he thought there was something going on between us.”

“He was really just picking up on our bonding over a common traumatic experience,” Saul struggled to add.

“And is that what’s been going on, Saul? Bonding over an experience?”

“Yeah, well, Jesse’s not gay.”

When they arrived in the parking lot of the vet’s office, the doctor was waiting for them. He and Jesse helped Saul out of the car. The doctor showed them to one of the examining rooms and had Saul sit up on the table. Satisfied that Saul’s breathing wasn’t too badly compromised, the vet explained that there was little he or anyone could do for the ribs and the injured lung. He told Saul what to watch out for and cautioned that if his condition worsened he’d need to go to the hospital. He asked if Saul had any hydrocodone. Then he turned his attention to Jesse. 

The vet used local anesthesia to numb the area of Jesse’s stab wound and then stitched it up. Despite Walt’s suspicious looks, Saul held Jesse’s shoulders while the doctor worked. The vet then patched up the cuts on both of their faces and asked Saul if he wanted his knee wrapped. “I’m no expert on human knee anatomy, but I can probably make you more comfortable with this,” the doctor said, holding an Ace bandage. Saul nodded.

Once Jesse and Saul were back at Jesse’s house, they could finally discuss what happened. They stood in the kitchen which still reeked of burned burrito.

“Nacho had us followed, yo. They saw us at the target practice. That’s how he knew,” Jesse explained.

“And then Ignacio showed up here?”

“When I saw his van in my driveway I almost shit a brick. I texted both you and Mr. White.”

“So that’s why Walt showed up…”

“I don’t know what took him so long, but thank god I texted you both.”

“Thank god he showed up when did. Who would have thought: Heisenberg saves the day?” They both laughed.

“Jesse, you saved my ass. That’s what all those dreams must have been about…” Saul mused.

“What dreams…”

“I kept dreaming about the attackers, and you usually saved my life… come here.” Jesse stepped over to Saul who embraced him in a hug.

“Do you want to stay here tonight? We could check each others’ concussions,” Jesse volunteered.

“I’d like that.”

Jesse led the way. Saul had a pair of crutches from the pharmacy and was having trouble navigating the stairs. Jesse finally took one of the crutches from him and draped Saul’s arm around his neck, and helped him up the stairs. Once on the top floor, Jesse said of the main bathroom: “That’s off limits,” and then led Saul into the bedroom. Saul collapsed exhausted onto the bed. 

“All right, talk to me. Let me hear that you’re okay.” Jesse insisted. Saul’s eyes had rolled back into his head and he was out. Jesse shook him. “Talk to me, Saul.”

“What’s wrong with your bathroom? I saw… the hole in the ceiling downstairs.”

“None of your business, yo. That’s a whole ‘nother level of sharing. We’re not there yet.”

“If it was the result of criminal activity, you should… tell your lawyer.”

Jesse set an alarm clock for two hours and laid down next to Saul. He embraced his arm and fell asleep.

When the alarm went off both men were groggy. “What time is it?” Saul asked.

“4:15pm.”

“I’m starving. I haven’t eaten all day. My French Toast is still sitting in its soggy juices, waiting to be rescued.”

“You had a more important rescue mission.”

“I did.” Saul grabbed the nape of Jesse’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss.


	12. The Ice Man Cometh

When the alarm went off again at 6:15pm, Saul turned it off. Jesse was out of it and Saul had a hard time rousing him. 

“Jesse, come on. Talk to me, kid.”

“Ow! Stop shaking me. I’ve got a wicked headache.”

“Open those beautiful baby blues.” Jesse opened his one good eye. “Have another Ibuprofen, yeah?”

Jesse accepted the pill.

“Now I definitely need to eat something. How ‘bout you, Jesse, are you hungry?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” They both lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling.

“What food do you have on hand?” Saul asked.

“There’s some Funyons,” Jesse offered.

Saul rolled his eyes, “I’m talking dinner food…”

“Oh.”

“Chicken?” Saul probed.

“No.”

“Vegetables?”

“Yeah.”

“Which ones?”

“Onions.”  
“Just onions? I wanted to make you my patented Garlic Chicken Stir Fry, but we don’t have the makings and I think a store run is out of the question for both of us.” Saul propped his head up with his hand, his elbow crooked underneath.

“Oh yeah, what’s in your patented Garlic Chicken Stir Fry?” Jesse turned to look at Saul.

“Well, garlic and chicken, obviously. And whatever veggies you like—for example onion, spinach, and peppers. Soy sauce, obviously. And then the secret ingredient.”

“What’s the secret ingredient?” Jesse asked.

“It’s called Dragon Salt—it’s a mixture of spices. But the main ingredient is chili pepper.”

“No way. Chili pepper was the secret ingredient of the meth I used to make.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it fired the chrystale up like a rocket booster, yo. But Mr. White put the kay-bash on the chili P. I’d like to try your Garlic Chicken sometime. But for now, sounds like pizza it is…” concluded Jesse. “We could eat it up here… you didn’t look too good on those stairs.”

“Pizza in bed. How luxurious.”

Jesse got up to call the pizza place. 

“While you’re up could you bring me some ice for my knee?” Saul asked.

When Jesse returned he had the ice, plus a surprise—a bottle of hydrocodone.

“What’s this?” Saul asked, knowing full well what it was and deep in a state of longing for the pills.

“I forgot I had some around. Remember, you’re messing with a drug dealer here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess you’re kind of experienced in that department.”

Saul popped two pills and chased it with the water that Jesse had brought him. Using a pillow, Saul propped up his knee and placed the ice pack on top. Then he lay back down.

“How’s your head?” Saul asked.

“Getting better. How’s yours?”

“I’ll be fine when the hydrocodone kicks in.” There was a long, contented silence. Jesse had brought a second ice pack for his eye and now he was laying back on the bed next to Saul. “Jesse, what happened to your bathroom?”

“Ugh… you’re not going to let up with it, are you?”

“No. And I’m a persistent fuck. It’s one of the secrets to my success.”

“OK. But you can’t tell anyone.”

Saul made a face as stupid as Jesse’s comment.

“The first time me and Mr. White cooked, we tried to sell our product to two psycho drug dealers, Crazy 8 and Emilio.”

“I’ve heard of them… Emilio Koyama?”

“Yeah. They went ape shit on us. Tried to steal our drugs and our formula. Mr. White rigged an explosion and they both inhaled poisonous gas. Emilio died from it, but Crazy 8—that’s another level of sharing—Crazy 8 hung in there. I had to get rid of Emilio’s body… Ugh, do you really want to hear this?”

Saul reached for Jesse’s hand.

“Yeah, I do. As your lawyer, but more importantly, as your friend.”

“Mr. White had me get some kind of acid—eats through anything. He didn’t tell me it would eat through a bathtub though. What kind of tripped out shit does that?”

“And hence the hole in the ceiling.”

“And the missing bathtub.”

“That’s some pretty damning evidence, Jesse. We should get that cleaned up.”

“We?”

“Yeah, well, if you need a hand,” Saul offered.

“Why are you so good to me?” Jesse asked.

“Why are you so irresistible?” Saul answered.

“No, seriously, you’re like the first adult that has cared about me… since Mr. White.”

“Mr. White?!”

“I don’t mean like that… like in high school, Mr. White was different from the other teachers. But, you know, chemistry just wasn’t my thing. And then, when he came to me about the meth. He made me feel like he could see something. In me. At first anyways. But now that he knows everything about the cook, it’s like I’m just his snot-nosed assistant.”

“No, Jesse, you’re not… you’re entrepreneurial and you’re artistic. You’ve got so much potential beyond drug dealing. As your sleazy lawyer I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you should get out of the drugs. How can you stay clean and be around all that?”

“Cookin’s hard, but what I really can’t be around is using.”

“And here I’ve been popping all those hydrocodones in front of you… I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I wish you wouldn’t do that… Opioid addiction is a bitch, yo.”

“See you know all kinds of stuff about chemistry,” Saul said, ruffling Jesse’s hair.

“And that’s another thing. Why are you so different than lawyer-Saul?”

“Oh, now there’s a story. You sure you want to hear it?”

“Absolutely.”

“So, I told you about my real name: Jimmy McGill. He started off as ‘Slippin’ Jimmy,’ small-time con artist really. Staging Slip and Falls and whatnot. Well, Jimmy wanted to be like his big brother, so he worked his ass off and he got a law degree and passed the Bar. But, Jimmy was a lawyer who couldn’t catch a break. He actually lived in his office, and his office was craved out of the janitor’s closet of a nail salon. They wouldn’t even pro bono the cucumber water at the nail salon, so he dipped into the well at night.”

“You stole from the cash register?”

“No, I literally drank the cucumber water at night. Anyway, try to follow the story… Jimmy found a couple of huge cases, they would have been major paydays, but there was this bigger firm that always stole them away. Then one day, Jimmy’s older brother, who was a partner at the firm, stabbed him in the back. Jimmy got tried of playing by the rules, so he created ‘Saul Goodman.’”

“Like a superhero!”

“Exactly.”

“Saul Goodman made his own rules, and when you combine the creative talents of Jimmy McGill con-man with a law degree and a ruthless disregard of the rules, you get Saul Goodman. When I put on the costume, kid, I become the man.”

“But you’re also a ‘Good man’. You do the right thing,” Jesse insisted—Saul was shaking his head no. “It’s right in your name ‘Goodman.’”

“Don’t mix metaphors, kid.”

********

Later that night Saul woke up making a muffled cry for help. Jesse jumped out of bed, and turned the light on before realizing it was just a dream. Saul was drenched in sweat and disoriented. He was reaching for his pistol.

“What’s going on, yo? You were dreaming… Saul?”

It took a moment for Saul to snap out of his reverie and get his bearings. “Ah, fuck, another nightmare.”

Jesse sat back down on the bed. “Well, it figures after what you’ve been through.”

“This time it was at my house. The attackers broke in and Nacho was with them. Actually, I think he unlocked the door.”

“He’s got keys? You’re going to have to change your locks, yo. Make sure that bitch can’t just waltz in there.”

“You know, I had been staying at a hotel until this weekend. Those bastards rang the door bell at 3am one night.”

“Seriously? That’s some scary shit.”

“I thought after our target practice that I’d be ready for them. But after today… I guess it’s back to the hotel.”

“No. You’ll stay here with me.”

“Are we at that level of sharing now?”

**************

Saul worked light days Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. He was having some trouble breathing. He had fleetingly considered taking himself to the hospital, but the vet had explained that they could really only help if he needed to go back on the ventilator. It definitely wasn’t that bad.

Saul’s second appointment with Caroline was on Wednesday evening. He was dreading the appointment with Caroline a little bit. It would be embarrassing to go in there all battered and bruised. With his face messed up and balancing on crutches, Saul knew he was a pathetic sight. He tried to compensate for that by wearing one of his nattiest suits: a grey number with a purple shirt and pink tie with diagonal stripes. Caroline was certainly taken aback by something in his appearance. Saul assumed it was his black and blue face.

“Oh, my, Saul… come in. What happened?”

“An aggravated lovers’ quarrel. I have… had… a very jealous boyfriend.”

“Oh my goodness. Are you… are you okay?”

“You should see the other guy.”

“Come, come, sit down. Do you need to put your leg up?”

“That would be great.” 

Caroline positioned an ottoman in front of Saul’s seat.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” She said sitting across from him.

“I got caught: I was engaged in some extracurricular activities with Jesse. My boyfriend, Ignacio, found out about it.”

“You’re just full of twists and turns aren’t you?”

“Jesse texted me saying that Ignacio knew.”

“And what went through your mind?”

“That it’s happening again.”

“What is ‘it’? We take control of things when we name them.”

“‘It’ was being under attack.”

“Go on.”

“Having to fight against something more powerful.”

“Excellent.”

“Like slaying dragons, I’d suppose you’d say.”

“Exactly. And how did dragon slaying go?”

“Ignacio had a gun on Jesse, and he’d stabbed him. I got him to release Jesse.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Negotiation. It’s what I do. I became the hostage so that Jesse could go free.”

“This is entirely different from the first incident. Here, you’re exhibiting choice. You _chose_ your role as hostage.”

“There weren’t very many choices.”

“No, but you chose what role you’d play. Then what?”

“Ignacio wanted to rape me.” Caroline broke her counselor veneer, bringing her hand up to her mouth. Saul continued: “I was determined to fight him. I figured I would lose. Ignacio is a tough little bastard and I’m no fighter. So I was… I was losing the fight… I mean, it wasn’t much of a fight. Ignacio punched me in the ribs and I was hurt; I knew I couldn’t recover from that. Then he tied up my wrists…”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“That’s when Jesse showed back up. And Dr. Strangelove was with him.”

“Ah, Dr. Strangelove, Jesse’s mysterious partner?”

“Yes. And he did the most amazing thing. He told Ignacio his street name in order to intimidate him. But it’s a very risky thing because Ignacio might be able to figure out his real identity and tell the cops… and this guy is public enemy #1 around here.”

“What do you make of that?”

“That Dr. Strangelove deserved my loyalty in protecting his identity. I never would have thought that he would help in a situation like that. He did it to protect his assets, I’m sure… but he did it.”

“How do you put this into context with the previous assault?”

“I got lucky this time… Dr. Strangelove and Jesse saved me. But in a way this time was worse because it was Ignacio. He beat the crap out of me… as you can see.”

“That must have been awful to have your boyfriend turn on you.”

“It doesn’t feel good… and he was protecting me from the attackers…” Right away Saul regretted bringing that up. He was fearful that Caroline would insist on police intervention.

Caroline jumped on it: “How so?”

“They’ve been harassing me. Making hang up calls, knocking on the door in the middle of the night…”

“Oh my God, Saul. These people pose an ongoing threat? What do they want with you?”

“To find out who Dr. Strangelove is I guess. And now, maybe some revenge: Ignacio messed up one of their gang.”

“So Ignacio was helping you deal with these gang members and now you’re on your own?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“So, how are you coping with all of this?”

“Well the dreams and flashbacks are back.”

“Back?”

“No bad dreams on Saturday… and then Sunday happened…”

“I’m sorry that they came back, but that they went away is a good sign. Have the dreams changed since Sunday?”

“Now it’s a muddle between the two events. There are the original attackers, and Ignacio comes to help, but then… he turns on me. Like last night, he killed the attackers. He said he was going to save me. But then he laughed and said, ‘I was saving you for myself.’”

“That’s some disturbing imagery…” Caroline said, followed by a long pause. “Saul, we talked last time about using Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing…”

“I actually did some research on it. It sounded kind of flaky at first, to tell you the truth. But it seems to work for a lot of people.”

“I’ve seen it work with battle-hardened veterans as well as sexual assault victims.”

“I’d be willing to give it a try, but I warn you, I’m skeptical. Do I have to be a ‘believer’ for it to work?”

“Nope. That’s the beauty of it, no harm in trying.”

“So, how do we proceed?”

“Well, there’s some initial prep work that we can get started on today and then I think we’ll be ready to get into the technique next session.”

“OK.”

“Our first area of focus is to get you some relief from your nightmares and flashbacks. OK?” Saul nodded. “First I’d like you to think of a safe place, it can be a real place, or some place imaginary, like the beach. The most important thing is that you feel safe and relaxed there. Got it?”

“Yeah, there’s a park I used to go to when I was a kid.”

“OK. That’s good. Now, I’d like you to close your eyes and relax. Are you comfortable physically? How’s your knee?”

“It’s OK. Yeah, I’m comfortable.” Saul closed his eyes and brought his other leg up onto the ottoman. 

“So, imagine being in the park. It’s a beautiful sunny day. The park begins to fill up with a violet mist. You breath in the mist and right away you feel its calming affects—it starts at your toes, each time you breath in, the mist moves through you. The mist relaxes your body. Your feet feel heavy now. Now you can feel it in your calves and your knees…” Caroline continued like that, having Saul imagine moving the mist through his body up to the crown of his head. When Caroline was finished with the exercise, she asked “How was that?”

“I felt self-conscious.”

“It can be awkward at first but you can’t just will away nightmares and flashbacks. You have to work with them subtly. Nudge them out,”

“Makes sense. What I’ve been doing hasn’t been working.” Saul agreed.

“What have you been doing?”

“You know, like you said, trying to control it, will it away. I get mad at myself for having a dream or a flashback.”

“This should work much better for you, Saul. You can use the relaxation technique anytime you need it. After a nightmare, during a flashback. It would be especially helpful just before you go to sleep. The more you practice it, the more beneficial it will be when you need it in an emergency. OK?”

Caroline continued on: “Now, I’d like you to think of a specific image from the dream and then we are going to alter it so that it becomes positive. Does that make sense?”

“I think so…” Saul thought about it for a moment: “so when Ignacio tries to use his key, it doesn’t work, or the key disintegrates.”

“Perfect. What I’d like you to do between now and next time is think about what some positive images would be. Does that sound like something you’d like to try on your own?”

“Yeah, I’m up for that.”

Saul left the office feeling optimistic for the first time in days. The relaxation technique seemed sappy, but if it offered any hope for relief from the disturbing memories, Saul was game to try it.

********

After the incident Sunday, Saul decided he would get a legally registered gun, one that he could take to a professional training class. He did some research and found a training facility that had a variety of classes available. Saul selected an eight hour class on the basics of handguns and bought himself a Glock 19. 

The class was Saturday… he called Caroline to let her know he’d have to cancel. He was still having intense nightmares, but he used Caroline’s relaxation technique to calm down afterwards and it seemed to help. Jesse, of course, was amused. He pretended to worry that Saul was turning New Age on him. 

The gun training was a mix between classroom and fieldwork. Because of his knee, Saul was thankful for the classroom training, but he was also anxious to practice, and improve, his shooting skills.

Once outside, he approached one of the instructors about his knee. He still had a limp, but no longer used the crutches. “Hey, Ron, I’m not sure I’ll be able to do everything with this bum knee.” Ron was a big guy with a mustache. He reminded Saul of Marco.

“Yeah, I see that. What about the two hand stance?” Ron demonstrated the technique and Saul imitated him.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“OK. Your form looks good. The hard part for you will be the running target shooting. The key will be you don’t have to race the clock. Take as much time as you need. Just as long as get some momentum going, get your heart racing, etc, you’ll benefit from the module. Can you run?”

“I could hardly run before the knee… I can limp fast.”

“OK, we’ll figure it out. Go get yourself set up for the target shoot.” 

Saul found that his knee made him concentrate more keenly on his stance and that, in turn, made him feel more confident. He was seeing the results. He was hitting the target nearly every time. He even hit a bull’s eye once.

Ron came around to check on Saul’s mechanics. “Two things Saul: don’t put so much of your finger into the trigger—just use the top of your finger. That’s why you’re pulling left. Secondly, just focus on the front sight. Try a few rounds that way.”

Ron stayed to observe and Saul ripped off three rounds. Two were bull’s eyes and the third was in the second circle of the target.

“Excellent job!” Ron encouraged him.

Saul was shooting well consistently by the time they switched to running for cover. Of Saul’s last several rounds, all had been on the silhouette with the majority hitting the inner circles.

The running for cover training consisted of closing in on a target by running from cover object to cover object, mostly barrels and planks of wood. Saul was careful with his running—more a trot, really. Again he found his knee making him self-conscious in a good way. Though he ran the course very slowly, nonetheless he secured one of the highest target shooting scores of the day.

On the way back to the classroom, Ron stopped him to congratulate him. “Hey, Saul, how did you get banged up anyway? Looks like your ribs are sore too?”

“Yeah, I was in a car accident,” Saul wasn’t sure why he lied, but he wasn’t sure why Ron was asking.

“You know, car accidents don’t usually inspire people to take gun classes. And people with torn up knees usually wait ’til they’re better. You can be straight with me.”

Saul looked searchingly at Ron. “It was assault.”

“And you think they’re coming back?”

“It’s complicated, but, yeah, they are coming for me.”

“You must be pretty desperate because it seems like you should be in bed, not on a gun range,” Ron commented.

“These guys have been bold enough to ring the door bell in the middle of the night. I need to be able to protect myself,” Saul’s voice was picking up velocity and pitch.

“Saul, I’m not just making idle conversation. We might be able to get you some customized help, if you want.”

“OK, tell me more.”

“We do private consultations… specific training scenarios to match a client’s needs. What do you think is going to happen?”

“Home invasion.” 

“Sounds serious. What about the cops?”

“Not an option.”

“Look we have a cancellation for tomorrow afternoon. If you’re up for it, we could teach you how to defend your home.”

***********

The next day, Saul arrived at the training facility at 2pm. He was wearing a black henley shirt and olive cargo pants. Ron showed him the training set. Inside one of the warehouses there was a ‘house’ roughed out, just a series of rooms framed out in drywall. There were doorways, but no doors. Saul found the layout fairly similar to his own house. He staked out a rear bedroom to defend. The crew had moved a mattress and a nightstand into the room. Everyone was outfitted with Simunition, a type of paintball bullet that works in standard guns. 

The simulation unfolded with Saul pretending to sleep on the bed. The intruders broke through the front door and made their way down the hall. The first simulation was a disaster for Saul. He took several pellets, including one to the knee that left him in a heap on the floor.

Ron blamed himself. “I should have had you wear some protection,” Ron apologized as he helped Saul off the floor. For the second simulation, Ron played the ‘home owner’ and had Saul follow behind as an observer. They ran through the simulation three more times, coaching Saul on his technique along the way. In the final run through, Saul had flattened both assailants with bullets to the chest while remaining unscathed. 

Saul thanked Ron for singling him out for extra training.

“No problem. You looked like a man with a story, and I guess I’m just nosy.”

“You’re protective is what you are, and I’m grateful.” They shook hands.

Saul left the facility exhausted, with a very sore knee, but feeling confident about his situation. It was the most relaxed he’d felt in weeks, yet at the same time he maintained a state of vigilance. The feeling of alert, however, felt more controlled. He realized he hadn’t had a hydrocodone all day, and almost skipped it, but decided to take one for his knee, but only one.

Saul went to Jesse’s house. Jesse wasn’t there, but he had been adamant that Saul should stay over anyway. Jesse and Walt had a several day cook out in the desert because Skyler was out of town. By the time Saul finished dinner, it was 8:30. The day felt incomplete. He was so jazzed about the extra simulation practice, he wished he could tell Jesse. 

*************

Saul returned to his house Monday night. Jesse didn’t want to see him go and a part of him was content to continue to hide out at Jesse’s. But a bigger part of him was angry to have his life controlled by thugs. He would be more comfortable at home—he had all his things and negotiating the stairs at Jesse’s with his knee was hard. 

Saul half-expected to come home to a trashed house and was relieved to find everything in place. Saul knew it was unlikely for the attackers to have broken in while he was gone. He parked his Cadillac in a car port so it was pretty obvious whether he was home or not. He’d briefly considered parking his car down the street but decided against it. The time for the conflict to come to a head was now.

That first night Saul was nervous and hardly slept. If they were watching his house every night, then they were probably salivating over his return. Unable to sleep, Saul kept the light off and practiced with his gun. He knew darkness favored the homeowner.

Tuesday night Saul was exhausted from not having slept the night before. He was still running on adrenalin, but by 1am he was out. He was sleeping in jeans and a t-shirt, on top of the covers. No sense in getting too comfortable. When the clock read 3:17am, Saul was awakened by the sound of glass shattering in the living room. His heart leapt out of his chest. Despite all of his practice, adrenalin made him fumble for the gun. He remembered to click off the safety. The shattered glass was followed by… silence. What were they doing? Saul assumed they had broken the sidelight on the front door. They should be reaching for the door knob. 

Saul made his way to the bedroom door. His knee was throbbing and his movements were clumsy and slow. He wished he had taken a hydrocodone. On second thought, no he didn’t. He needed all his faculties online. He peaked down the hallway and damn if he didn’t see a hand turning the door knob. He contemplated shooting at it, but he knew he should wait for a bigger target. Should he call the cops? Jesse? His phone was back on the nightstand.

Suddenly, the front door flew open and there was one figure, two, descending upon his living room. A dim light was creeping in from the street and the figures were ill-defined black masses. Saul couldn’t distinguish one from the other. He took two shots at the amorphous huddle and was gratified to hear someone cry out. The return fire was immediate, coming in an unrelenting barrage. 

Saul felt himself thrown back by a blow to the shoulder. At first he didn’t know what happened, but a powerful sting in the left shoulder and a growing wet feeling let him know he’d been hit. Involuntarily he let out a groan. He transferred the gun to his left hand and reached up to feel the damage. His shirt was ripped open and he could feel moist skin—it almost made him pass out, but he shook it off. He had to. One of the forms was making its way down the hallway.

Saul swallowed hard, pushing past the feeling of puking. He saw that the gunman had a laser on his weapon and he became more terrified. But then he realized the laser betrayed the shooter’s exact location. What was Ron had said about lasers? “They’re good for deer hunting…” Saul retreated inside the bedroom. He plastered himself along the near wall. He saw the laser flickering into the room, but the shooter couldn’t get the angle. A few rounds were fired anyway. Saul held his gun one handed, with his chest pressed against the wall. He felt the sticky wetness of the blood dripping down his left arm. The smell of gunpowder filled the room. Now Saul could hear the slow, deliberate footsteps in the hallway. It sounded as if the gunman was halfway down the hall. Soon he would have the angle on Saul.

Bracing himself against the pain, Saul took a step into the doorway and began firing. He quickly unloaded about ten rounds. Somewhere in that torrent of gunfire, the gunman had cried out, but Saul didn’t stop. He didn’t stop when there was no return fire. He didn’t stop when the figure collapsed. He didn’t stop until his magazine was empty. 

Saul limped back to his nightstand and retrieved another clip of ammo and his phone. He sat down on his bed and methodically reloaded the gun. Then carefully he ventured back into the hall, turning the light on. He inspected the injured man. It was the man who’d raped him, the Ice Man. He appeared to be gravely injured with a bullet wound to the chest. Saul made his way to the living room. There was no sign of the other man, except for a blood stain. Saul called 911 and then he called Jesse. 

*********

Saul’s gunshot wound was a through-and-through. The bullet had pierced through the shoulder blade. Saul was fortunate that the bullet missed any arteries. Nonetheless, he needed surgery to stop the bleeding and to close up the entry and exit wounds.

Jesse was there when Saul got out of surgery.

“Nice shooting, Tex! _Where, and when,_ did you learn to shoot like that, yo?!”

“Ah, I need to tell you about the gun range.”

“Yeah!”

“Did you talk to the police? What’s the deal with the people in my house.”

“Saul, the Ice Man is dead, yo. YOU nailed that bitch. The other guy ran away, but it looks like you hit him too.”

“Oh, thank God.” Saul’s head fell back on the pillow.

“I asked if any charges would be filed against you for wasting the Ice Man. They wouldn’t answer about your specific case. But they did say a homeowner’s got a right to use lethal force against an intruder.”

Saul smiled. “Thanks for checking.”

“Oh, right. I’m so dumb. You know the laws. And everything.”

“These things are always open to interpretation. It’s good to know how the police are thinking.”

“How are you feeling, yo?” Jesse was going to slap Saul on the upper arm; he stopped and turned it into a gentle stroke.

“I’m great! I mean I feel woozy and not so good really. But I’m doing great!”

“I hear that. So when you get out of here, you’re staying at my place. I insist. There’s a guest bedroom on the first floor… I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before—we’ll use that. I just need to put a mattress in there.”

“Thanks, Jesse, I’d like that.”

“Are you up for visitors? ‘Cause once again I filled the waiting room… let’s see… we have Vertigo, Real Women Have Curves, Spartacus brought Rainman, and, oh Dr. Strangelove is here.”


End file.
